Donny Dearest Part One: A Lost Hope
by theallbadhat
Summary: Don is kidnapped and tortured, 'regressing' to the behavior of a toddler. Ch. 58. I thought they had...but they didn't? Ch. 59. Last. complete part one.
1. What Did She Do To You?

Disclaimer: I don't own any rights to numb3rs or the characters therein.

Summary: Well, maybe it's going to be a little weird, but hopefully sweet later on. What the heck- it's what fan fiction's for, right? Basically, Don gets kidnapped by a psycho psychologist who thinks he and her son were switched at the hospital 37 years ago; her son died when he was three, so she uses shock treatment to try to get Don to become the little boy she never had. As he starts to enjoy playing his new role of big brother, will Charlie be a help or a hindrance in Don getting back to normal? Or does Charlie want to be big brother forever?

Rated T for the little bit of torture and a couple swear words- not as much as others rated T.

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Alan stood in the hallway of the institute, looking nervously at the clock. He had been stuck in traffic, so he had arrived past 8:00; that meant he was past the established bedtime and he would not be able to talk to his son. Putting that aside, he at least wanted to see him- touch him, maybe hold him.

It had been over two months since he had last seen him, so he knew that no matter what the doctor suggested, he would demand to be let into his room- even if he had to use force.

He started to pace. There was a skeleton crew on duty, so he had no one to talk to, no one to ask questions. The one nurse on duty behind the front entrance desk was busy on the phone, she herself walking back and forth as she put files away and tidied up. Alan wished he had something to do with his hands, finally forcing them into his pockets to keep from wringing them.

Charlie had wanted to come, whining that he missed Don; but after Alan talked to the doctor the day after finding Don- _after Alan talked to Megan the actual day they found_ _him_- he decided it would not be a good idea for Charlie to see his big brother in the state he was in. Alan held out hope that his eldest son would be able to return to normal, and knew it might destroy Don and Charlie's often fragile relationship if Don could not believe that he had always retained the role of protector in the eyes of his younger brother. So, Alan had come alone, wanting to view firsthand the damage that had been done to his son.

The clocked moved slowly as Alan finally sat in a chair, running weak hands across his tired face. He thought he might try whining himself, if it came to that, in order to see his son. It had been over a week since they had found him. He appreciated the doctor's cautiousness, as he was aware of the precarious beam of sanity that his son was walking.

But, damn it, he had to see him!

"Mr. Alan Eppes", a quiet voice addressed Alan.

He looked up into the face of a middle-aged Chinese doctor. He was shorter than Alan, but well-built; it was apparent beneath the thin layer of his white coat that he was solid muscle.

Alan rose to meet the doctor, offering his hand, a small smile touching the corners of his mouth.

"Yes, that's me." Alan confirmed.

"I'm Dr. Wang. It is nice to see that the face before me matches the loving and caring tone I detected in your voice on the phone. Donny is going to need someone like you."

Noting that his son had been referred to by his nickname, something he was not used to hearing from strangers, Alan put the compliment aside. He had always loved and cared for his sons. It would not have crossed his mind that there was anybody on earth who would not feel that way for their children.

However, Dr. Wang had more experience with the way other, not-so-caring people felt about their children. As a result, meeting parents for the first time was an act that always carried with it a feeling of trepidation. In this case, that feeling was swept away by the real concern he saw in the eyes of the man who stood before him.

Those eyes also glinted with a hint of determination. Dr. Wang had wanted to ask Mr. Eppes to come back in a few more days, but decided that this was one father who would not be talked out of seeing his son.

"Please, come with me," the doctor indicated with a small wave of his right hand, his left one playing with a pen in his pocket.

Alan kept in step beside the doctor, anxious that the doctor not change his mind and bar him entrance to his son.

They were buzzed into a hallway through a door to the left of the entrance desk, Alan brushing past Wang quickly so that the doctor would have no way of entering without him- and locking him out. Wang smiled at Alan's urgency- every action Alan took convinced him this man really would be the saving force for his son.

Alan moved faster down the hall, passing another nurses' station on his right, putting himself ahead of the doctor. Wang took his time, knowing that Alan would be stuck at the end of the hall because the door to that wing of the institute also remained locked.

As expected, Alan tried the door and showed some impatience at having to wait for Wang to enter the code that allowed the door to swing open.

After passing through, Dr. Wang grabbed Alan's arm gently but firmly, showing the strength that he had stored up in the muscles of his arm. Alan turned his face to him, while his body tried to continue down the hall.

"Mr. Eppes- please, one moment. I want you to take a moment to prepare yourself. I promise, you will get to see your son."

Alan realized that he believed the doctor was speaking the truth- he would finally be allowed to see for himself how well Donny was doing. Wang was correct, of course, he needed to take a deep breath before seeing him. Stopping before the door that Wang indicated was Donny's, Alan stood still for several minutes. There were only three doors in this hallway, each one slightly opened as another nurses' station was set across the hall from this set of rooms. Alan had seen three televisions hanging from the ceiling within the station; he correctly assumed that the nurses were able to keep a 24-7 watch on the three seriously ill patients that occupied these rooms. One of these patients was his son, Donald Eppes, whose room was the last one in the hall.

He knew that Donny would be asleep, so he needed to be quiet. Dr. Wang had warned Alan that Donny could be easily startled, and that the ensuing feeling of confusion would often leave him in a state of terror. The one thing Alan did not want was for his son's first meeting with him to be scorched with fear.

Slowly pushing open the door, walking on tiptoes, Alan walked to the side of the hospital bed where his son lay asleep on his right side, the only sound coming from the gentle in and out of air through Donny's nose. A small nightlight set into the wall allowed him to see his son.

Alan stood next to Donny. Looking down at him, the first feeling he felt was relief; his son was alive and apparently still in good _physical _health. The second feeling he felt was anger, as it was also apparent that he was not in good _mental_ health. The last feeling he felt was love, as he moved closer to the bed so he could run his fingers through his son's hair.

Donny stirred slightly in his sleep. From practice learned years before, Alan took a handkerchief from his shirt pocket, expertly placing it under the bottle that Donny barely held between his lips. He then took the near-empty bottle from his son's mouth, wiping away the small amount of fluid that spilled down his cheek. Donny responded by licking his lips, trying to find the missing nipple, opening his eyes halfway. Alan ran his hand through his son's hair again, whispering soothing sounds as he placed the bottle aside.

Turning over onto his left side, Donny slipped his right thumb into his mouth. Still asleep with his eyes now completely closed, he raised his head up at a slight tilt, reaching about on the bed with his left hand, patting the blankets and sheets slowly but not finding what he wanted.

Alan quickly moved to the left side of the bed, reaching his hand under the blankets covering his son. From his long talks with Wang, he knew what to look for. Smashed halfway under Donny's side, Alan found and pulled out a medium-sized floppy-eared bunny rabbit, its left ear noticeably missing half its hair. Alan placed the rabbit into his son's hand, pressing it hard enough so that he would be aware that he had it within his grasp. Donny laid his head back down on his pillow, curling his body into a ball, the rabbit pressed tightly to his chest, and his right thumb completely encased in his mouth.

Continuing to stroke his 37-year-old son's hair, all Alan could think was "What the hell did that bitch do to you?"


	2. What She Planned

Disclaimer: I do not own Numb3rs or any of its characters.

Author's note: I got notice that Don is 35. I thought 37. Is there a consensus? Thanks.

Nine and half weeks earlier

Sitting on a black iron bench, she watched him from the corner edge of the park. He was standing with a younger man, both of them laughing and eating fudgcicles, the frozen chocolate treat dripping on their hands in the hot summer sun. She saw him grab a handkerchief from his pocket- so gentlemanly, so old-fashioned- and wipe his hand; then he offered it to the other man, who shook his head and cleaned his fingers and knuckles with quick licks of his tongue.

How vulgar, she thought.

The casual interplay between the two men was completely lost on her. She only saw the differences that confirmed in her mind that they could not possibly be related.

One was tall with straight-cut hair, a suit and tie combined with expensive leather shoes that reflected the afternoon sun from the shine that had been so well-rubbed into them. His back and limbs were held stiff even when bending to place his trash in a can nearby, his posture serious and well-controlled. Though his large hands looked battle-worn, the nails were trimmed and immaculate, the sure signs of a professional manicure. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes- preventing others from seeing into them, preventing others from seeing what he thought- a small barricade cutting him off from the rest of the world.

When he sat with his companion on the bench next to hers, his body was still as he sat straight up with his right leg crossed over his left, both hands clasped in his lap.

His companion was almost a polar opposite. When he finished his treat, he jumped in the air, twisting his shorter and gangly body as he shot his trash into the can like a player trying to shoot a basket. His red t-shirt rode up from the faded and torn jeans that hugged his hips, the unbuttoned shirt he wore over it flapping behind him. The long curls that hung around his face never ceased to move as he bobbed his head about, every inch of his body seeming to be in perpetual motion of one kind or another. When he finally sat down, he was sitting yoga style on the bench, waving slim hands with dried chocolate streaking through the feathery layer of chalk dust that coated them. His feet were clad in broken gym shoes that tapped the bench in some unknown rhythm. Leaning back, his arms thrown across the back of the bench, he was open to the world around him.

Definitely not related, she thought.

Casually moving closer to the two men as they continued to talk, she acted like she was trying to feed a couple birds that sat on the ground near the end of the bench. By angling her head just so, she was able to overhear their conversation.

"Dad's going with me, can you believe it? This whole weekend just me and him. He thinks it'll be some kind of bonding thing between us- like living with me isn't bonding enough."

Laughter.

"C'mon, you can humor him. You know I'd have joined you, but I've got all this paperwork to do. My suspicion is I'll get more done holed up at my apartment than holed up with you two."

Pause.

"Besides, 'bonding' with dad will be more fun than sulking in your hotel room 'cause Amita and Larry had to stay here to work."

Silence.

"Charlie- is there something wrong- what'd I say?"

"Nothing really, Don, it's just- I'm not sure if Amita really has work to do or she just didn't want to come with me.."

Light laughter.

"Charlie- don't worry about it. If she could have gone but didn't want to, she'd have said so. She hasn't made up excuses before- as a matter of fact, I think she has been more than forthcoming."

Silence.

"Yeah, I know you're right- I just can't seem to shake this feeling-"

"I'm _always_ right- and forget the feeling. You'd just rather be going to Diego with a _hot,_ _flashy_ brunette than a brunette that's old enough to have _hot flashes_."

Laughter.

"Man, Dad would kill you if he thought you were implying he was going through menopause or something."

"Yeah- well, only if his memory held out long enough to remember what I said."

Major laughing.

"You know, Don, you always have a way of making my mood change for the better, even when the situation itself hasn't changed."

"Someone's gotta look out for you, bro, and I guess that someone's gotta be me."

She watched from the corner of her eye as the two men stood up, the taller one putting his hand on the back of the smaller one, leading him out of the park as they continued to talk.

Clicking the rings on her left hand together, she counted two good things that were going to coincide this weekend: his pseudo-family would be gone all weekend, and he was finally going to be away from work. This weekend would have to be it then. And she was actually ready- everything she needed was at the house, all her preparations finally good to go.

She supposed that she shouldn't be surprised that everything was coming together so well. There was no relationship more natural than that between mother and son, and it was natural that the necessary events would coincide so that she could re-establish that relationship. Like the sun and the moon, she felt she and her son had been orbiting around each other for two years now, each following a different course. Now, as everything was falling into place, she felt that they were finally traveling the same trajectory, a path that would end with them as aligned as the sun and the moon when those heavenly bodies spectacularly overtook one another in an eclipse. The thought of the climax of their meeting left her awestruck, as she was overwhelmed with the need to be with her son.

She had waited so long.

She left the park, making plans.

Many plans.

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Special Agent Don Eppes hung up his office phone. It was just past 9:00 on a Friday night, the bullpen hushed as only a few agents continued to work. His father and Charlie had called to let him know they had arrived in San Diego safely. Somehow, he knew they were really checking up on him. Shaking his head at their obvious concern for him, Don had informed them he was about to leave the office and enjoy crashing into bed for as long as he could, the next two days off being a windfall for him. Well, other than the paperwork; but, surprisingly, he was almost done with that.

After his reassuring talk with his family, Don moved his neck in a small circle, placing his right hand at the base of his neck, trying to push and move the kinks that had stiffened him. He leaned back in his chair and breathed deeply a few minutes while rubbing his eyes. Feeling a little refreshed, he gathered the few remaining files he had stacked on his desk, preparing to take them back to his apartment to finish. The baseball game would still be on when he got home, so he might be in time to see a couple good plays. With this in mind, he threw on his suit jacket and left quickly for the elevator.

Once in his SUV, Don began running down a to-do list in his head as he drove through the thick traffic that kept him from getting to his apartment in a decent amount of time. It was his late arrival at his apartment that kept him from being as careful as he usually was- that, coupled with the weariness that weighted his body as he got out of his SUV and started for the apartment complex door.

"Excuse me, sir" a woman's voice called across the parking lot to him.

Don turned to see a woman about six inches shorter than him standing near a parked car, three spaces down from his SUV. He could barely make out her features, as the light over her parking spot was not working.

"Yes?" he inquired, turning the folders in his hands over, and then placing them under his right arm.

The woman took a step forward, hunching her shoulders while her hands stayed hidden in her pockets.

"You wouldn't happen to know how to change a flat tire? I know I sound cliché, but my generation of women didn't grow up learning to do these things- and, well, they say it'll be a couple hours for the tow truck- I just hate waiting here by myself."

Don looked around, his FBI training sniffing about for signs of an ambush. He did not see anyone hiding around the lady's car, nor within the cars on either side of her. He placed the files he held in his hand back into his SUV, taking off his jacket and lying it across them as he began rolling up his sleeves. He left the door unlocked so he could quickly grab them when he finished. Then, he walked slowly toward the car.

His cautious approach to the car was a result of his trained FBI instinct; the fact that he approached to help at all was the result of his natural Boy Scout inclination.

"Thank you so much," she smiled at Don. He got the impression she was at least middle-aged by how still she held herself; she didn't waste any energy moving about, as if it pained her to move. Her features were hidden in shadow, but he could make out long black (brown?) hair that flowed past her shoulders.

"No, problem- is the spare in your trunk?"

"Yes, it is."

As the woman appeared to be shivering, Don hesitated a moment. He wondered what she was nervous about- again, he looked around. Not finding any sign of movement, he placed his cautiousness to the side, realizing she did not know him and might actually be afraid of him. He followed as she lead him to the trunk of her car, his mind on the baseball game he was missing, wanting her to hurry up so he could get up to his apartment and just flop down on the couch, a cool beer in his hand.

Don was standing behind her as she opened up the trunk with her key, and then she moved aside to allow him access. He looked about the trunk, but the only thing that appeared to be inside was a blanket thrown open at the bottom. Don leaned over to see if the spare was tucked under the back edge of the trunk- man, this trunk is almost as big as my backseat- when he became aware of a sharp buzzing feeling that emanated from his back and worked its way throughout his body, his limbs suddenly limp at his side, the shock of steel causing echoes of pain to reverberate off him when he fell, a loud clang sounding overhead.

As he landed, bright sunspots splashed across his vision in quick outbursts-

and then-

**_eclipse_.**


	3. Where Did She Take You?

Disclaimer: I do not own Numb3rs or any of its characters.

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Charlie hung up the phone, picked it up again, put it back down. He sat at the edge of the hotel bed, bouncing slightly up and down, the fingers of his right hand playing with the lower lip of his mouth.

It was Saturday night and he hadn't been able to contact Don all day.

He knew his brother might have been called in to work, but still, he would have answered his phone.

Or called back after Charlie had left so many messages.

The last one he left had been tempered with the quiet whine that he was so good at putting into his voice, a sound that always made Don call him back within seconds of hearing it.

That message had been left at 4:00; it was now almost 7:00.

Alan exited the bathroom, his shoulders bunched together from the stress that was beginning to gather at the base of his neck.

He couldn't understand why they hadn't been able to contact Don, either. He didn't tell Charlie, but when he had gone to the lobby to ostensibly get a newspaper, he had tried calling his eldest son for almost thirty minutes.

No answer. No reply.

Both men knew in their guts something was wrong. Since the third member of their family had been stationed in Los Angeles, only once had he gone more than a day without talking to them; and that they blamed on his ex-partner, who seemed to have been trying to rope Don back into playing the fugitive recovery game.

Alan had nipped that in the bud with demands that his eldest return to the family home, where he and Charlie had entangled him in the routine snare of family love and memories.

Don never strayed again.

Now, Alan and Charlie knew something was wrong.

They just weren't sure what to do about it.

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"Sinclair".

"Oh, David, I, uh, it's Alan- Alan Eppes. You know, Don's dad."

Alan's embarrassment stuttered on the phone. For the first time since he had decided to call David, he realized that the young man might actually be busy on a Saturday night.

"Of course, Alan- anything I can do for you?"

David wondered if Alan was looking for Don. The young agent had not seen his boss since the previous morning, when Don was starting to dive into a stack of paperwork, and David had headed out to the L.A. police department to return some files that the Bureau had borrowed. David knew Alan fairly well- he had been invited over on several occasions and had liked the man immensely. If he envied his boss one thing, it would be his having a father like Alan; well, maybe two things, because Don also had one hell of a brother.

"Well, actually, uh, me and Charlie are in San Diego right now, uh, at a, uh, convention."

Alan hesitated. He did not want to come across as overprotective- that might embarrass Don- but, then, this was David, and he was a good friend to his son. David knew how he and Charlie were, so he wouldn't be judgmental about their concern.

"Are you and Don on a case right now?" Alan blurted out, "Because we haven't been able to get a-hold of him all day."

David did not immediately reply. He thought about Alan's question, paying close attention to the worry that was enthroned upon his voice. Their team was not working any case, and he knew his boss-along with the rest of the team- had been given the weekend off. He also knew that Don made it a point to call his father and brother every day; he even made it a point to call them before a raid. David assumed it was his way of making sure they had a last word with him in case anything went wrong.

"No, Alan, we're not on a case. As a matter of fact, we all have the weekend off. You've tried his cell phone?"

"Yes- over and over. We've called his apartment, too- he told us about nine last night that he was heading there to do paperwork. That's the last we've heard from him."

Alan paused, wanting to ask David to check on Don, but not sure if he should obligate him to action. His silent request was answered by David-

"Look, I can go by his apartment- see if he's home." He chuckled. "Maybe he's actually getting some sleep."

Neither man on the phone believed that could be one of the explanations for Don not responding to his family's messages.

"Thanks, David- I'm glad Don has a friend like you."

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David Sinclair drove his car to Don's apartment building. He did not have a date tonight because he had been planning on relaxing in his apartment all weekend, a good book and a glass of wine his only companions. Well, he thought, my little party will still be in full swing when I get back, so this little drive is worth it if it helps Alan and Charlie stop worrying.

And if it helps me stop worrying, too.

After he parked his car, David went directly into the apartment complex, walking up the steps to Don's apartment at a fast pace. Arriving at his door, he first knocked quietly, but the lack of response compelled him to bang his fist on the door nearly five minutes before he gave up.

Not sure what his next move should be, David realized that he had not even checked to see if Don's SUV was in the parking lot in its assigned space. He wanted to kick himself, because that was the _first_ thing he should have done. Walking back down the stairs, he exited the building and went to check the spot where Don was supposed to park his truck.

It was there.

David approached the driver's door of the large truck, looking into the side window for any signs of Don. When he saw the suit jacket with the edges of several files peeking out from underneath, a natural instinct that recognized trouble made the muscles in David's stomach constrict. He tried the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. Entering the door, he pushed the jacket and files onto the passenger seat, and then looked around for Don (maybe asleep in back, knocked out, drunk, dead) but found no traces of the agent.

Finally sitting in the front seat, David placed his head on the steering wheel and thought about what he should do. This is so not Don, he thought, and made a decision. Pulling out his cell phone, he made two calls.

The first one was to the Bureau.

The second one was to Alan.

He most definitely did not want to make the latter one.

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A kaleidoscope of light and darkness encircled the head of Special Agent Don Eppes. He tried to piece together the odd shapes that hovered around him, but they moved apart too fast each time he tried to focus on them, their overlapping edges spinning into new mosaics each time he opened his eyes, a twist on reality each time he tried to concentrate.

Finally, the puzzle pieces spun together one last time, and a clear picture formed.

Don tried to sit up. His head hurt and every muscle in his body rippled with the aftershocks of pain. But he did not want to lie down anymore, so he willed his body into a sitting position and wedged his eyes open.

He blinked once, then again.

Then he rubbed his eyes.

Laid back down.

Sat back up.

Looked around.

Laid back down.

Closed his eyes.

Opened one gingerly, peering out from the wall of thick lashes that protected them.

Closed his eyes again.

Okay, Eppes, he thought, take stock.

Don focused on the last memories he had before coming-

here;

wherever here was.

The last thing I remember before blacking out was standing near my car- no, not my car, someone else's car. Who? Not someone I know- oh, yeah, some lady. She needed help.

With what?

A tire- her tire was flat. And it was in the trunk- no, I couldn't find it in the trunk.

Why?

Because there was no tire in the trunk- probably never had been.

A trick- to get me here.

But where is here.

And why did she do this?

And why me?


	4. Where's the Evidence?

Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to numb3rs or the characters therein.

Author's note: Okay- I mention in here Don's age as being 35 to correct the mistake in my first chapter. If a revised chapter 1 ever shows up, it just means I simply changed the number 37 to 35. Also, thanks anonymous- the kidnapper is now a psychiatrist, and I read up on shock treatment so I could get it right.

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It was a clear Monday morning, sunlight pouring into the room so thick a haze hung about the occupants and their chairs, a slight glare on the whiteboard necessitating its placement at an awkward angle. Almost twenty men filled the small space with suits and ties and gleaming shoes, the chorus of their voices harsh whispers, their movements short and jerky, the scraping of their metal chairs making small beats on the floor as they moved about, the strokes of their attention drawn to and from each other as they made speculations that they tried to reign in when they broke free from common sense and actual possibilities- all except one man, whose contribution to the orchestra was a pair of broken tennis shoes beating with a nervous rhythm on the tiled floor.

His voice was lost in the pit of his ever-lurching stomach; his natural curiosity was safely plugged shut with the ear buds he wore on his head, lost to the music from the mp3 player that prevented him from hearing the cacophony of the agents around him.

Charlie did not want to know what they thought.

Not yet, anyway.

If he allowed himself to listen to their meandering melody, his own mind might take on that exact refrain.

He suspected what fears they were vocalizing.

He did not want to think of Don being dead.

So, he sat in the room in his own world of music, while the agents around him continued to perform their own sad song of "Where could Eppes be?"

He feared it was going to be an unfinished symphony, because nobody knew.

No one could guess at all.

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Special Agent Reeves approached the white board, clipping a picture of Don at the top.

Assigned to lead the investigation into the disappearance of her colleague and friend, she faced the roomful of agents, waited for Alan Eppes to find his place next to Charlie, gently shake his son's attention back to the room, the mp3 player placed away.

Standing at the podium set in the front of the room, Meagan held a marker up high in her right hand; she tapped it gently against the podium three times, waiting for the room's occupants to quiet and get settled into attentive positions- then, with an air of anticipation, she began conducting the investigation, the writing instrument in her hand gliding in short and long movements across the white board as she converted the low resonance and high trumpeting of suggestions from her fellow players into a complete expression of case notes.

When the last idea reverberated off the wall, and the racket in the room had finally faded, Megan began assigning parts to each of the federal agents. They quickly left the room to start the litany of jobs that needed to be performed.

All who were left were Alan, Charlie, David, Colby, and Megan. Regrouping, they headed to the nearest lounge to privately discuss Don's disappearance.

They grabbed cups of fresh coffee and sat loosely around a table in the corner.

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It had been a rough couple of days. Alan and Charlie had driven back to Los Angeles immediately upon receiving the return call from David. Sunday morning had been spent at Don's apartment, his fellow team members- David, Colby, and Megan- searching it thoroughly after being provided a key from Alan. Nothing looked amiss. The two-day stack of letters bunched in Don's mail receptacle and the condition of his SUV were enough evidence to indicate that whatever had happened to the agent had occurred somewhere in the parking lot. A crime scene unit was called out to go over the apartment, but no tell-tale evidence appeared to be found.

The team members brought Charlie and Alan to the apartment, and spent the rest of Sunday thoroughly going through all of Don's possessions, trying to find some indication of what had happened to him. Neither Eppes man was familiar with Don's things, so they could not say if anything was missing, though Charlie was able to state that the apartment's condition looked the same way as the last time he had seen it. Considering that had been over six months before, everyone in the room looked upon the apartment more as a sleeping and changing place for Don rather than his home.

At the same time, working out in the parking lot, the crime scene unit did not detect anything out of the ordinary. It was not until nightfall that they were called back in, the result of Colby's interest in the stars.

Everyone had decided to call it a night, Alan and Charlie heading back home, while the team members headed to write reports at the office, and then to catch a few hours sleep. There would be a task force forming in the morning, and everyone wanted to be alert when the meeting began.

Colby was standing behind the others, looking into the early evening sky.

"You know, if it weren't for all the light that we generate, we could see those stars much clearer."

He pointed to the lights from the nearby apartment windows, the glare of streetlights, and finally the lights that ringed the parking lot. That's when he noticed there was one out a few spaces down from Don's car. Colby's mind processed the information quickly- Don disappeared, there is a light out near his parking space, the area is dark, the entire lot is well-kept, no other lights are out. He immediately went to the parking space that was engulfed in shadow, the darkness intensified by its nearness to the building itself. Looking down, he noticed the vague imprints of tire tracks. He also noticed that one print was spread out and misshapen, as if the tire had been flat. An idea formed in his head, and he called over to the group of people who were watching his behavior with heightened interest.

"You find something, Colby?" David asked, standing next to him.

"Yeah- I think so. Look how this light is out over this parking spot. Now, look at the tire tracks- that rear passenger one looks like it could have been flat. What if Don got home and someone was here with a flat tire- maybe asked Don for help. Odds are, if it was someone he would feel compelled to help- like a person with an injury, a woman, or, I don't know, an elderly person- wouldn't he have tried to help?"

David and Megan thought it over. It suddenly struck David-

"Hey- yeah, I think you've go something there. I mean, that would account for him leaving the files in the car and taking off his suit jacket. He wouldn't have wanted to get it dirty".

What this suggested none of the team members voiced. They did not want to discuss any particular possibilities when Don's family was around- because those possibilities all involved violence, and Don at least being hurt.

Thus, the crime scene unit was called in again, this time to process this particular parking space and the tire tracks, while the David, Colby, and Megan headed back to the office, and the Eppes men headed home.

They all met up the next day at the task force meeting.

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Lightly swirling the coffee in his cup, Alan asked the agents, "Where do you go from here?"

Megan took the lead. "We'll start talking to our informers, see if there is any information on the street about a fed being kidnapped or"- here she hesitated, "uh, going missing."

She, David, and Colby exchanged mutual looks that agreed to not bring up the possibility that Don had been killed, and his body buried where they'd never find it. They were going to keep the Eppes' hopes up- and theirs as well.

Alan and Charlie were not fooled, however, as the possibility of Don's death had been staring at them ever since they received the return phone call from David. They appreciated the agents' concern for their feelings, though, so they also avoided bringing up the topic. It was one they were glad to let rest.

Megan continued, "We're also waiting for the crime scene unit's information from that parking space. We might be able to name a car from the tire type, and ask residents if they noticed it parked there Friday night- or at any other time. It's somewhat weak, but you'd be surprised how far a little bit of information can go."

"Also, we already checked the GPS for Don's cell phone. Whatever happened, the phone is no longer in service and the card is not readable. So, despite the small amount of evidence we have, we are still able to try numerous routes."

"Among those will be a public campaign," David added, "We'll work hard to get Don's picture out there. If we don't get any response, the Bureau will typically offer a reward."

With that, Charlie looked up.

"How much?"

"Enough," Colby said, thinking a couple seconds, "probably a hundred grand- Don's a team leader, so they would offer that much."

Charlie licked his lips.

"If they offer a reward- whatever it is, I'll double it."

The four other people at the table raised their eyebrows at the young professor.

"Consulting pays well, and, if it will help bring back Don, I'll donate every last penny I have."

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Don sat up in the bed; it felt small beneath his body, as he was not used to sleeping on a twin. Swinging his legs over the side, he placed bare feet on a blue carpeted floor. He was still wearing his suit pants and undershirt, but his belt and dress shirt were missing.

It took a lot of energy for Don to keep his vision clear; his body was tired and aching, he was extremely hungry and parched- but his curiosity overwhelmed him and was his main motivation to move.

He was sitting in what looked like a typical children's room. Four walls, no windows, and two doors set within a few feet of each other in the wall to the left of the bed; directly across from Don, a small television sat on a three-drawer dresser, a DVD player balanced on the top. To the right of the dresser, a clothed-covered lazy boy recliner was wedged into the corner, a small square toy box flushed against the wall to his right. A wastebasket was placed at the head of the bed. Everything was colored blue. There was no other furniture in the room, except the bed he was sitting on, which was pushed against the wall.

There was also a small nightlight in the shape of a rabbit, sitting in the socket near the dresser.

Don thoughtfully ran his fingers along the sheets and blankets of the bed. They were printed with baseballs, gloves, and bats- no specific team logo was apparent. The set up of the room made the agent suspect that somebody who was familiar with him had brought him here-maybe not someone he had been close to, but someone who at least knew a few things about him.

Like his love for baseball- but not the name of his favorite team.

And that his favorite color was blue- but not the shade.

Don checked his pockets, looking for a cell phone he knew would not be there. Standing slowly, facing the wall to the left of the bed, he carefully walked the few steps to the door set to his right; it opened into a full bathroom, with toilet, basin sink, and an old-fashioned iron bathtub with clawed feet.

After taking advantage of the facilities, Don ran the water in the sink, lowering his head to scoop up water, sucking in the liquid for several minutes until he satisfied his thirst. His stomach grumbled, but he ignored it. Wiping his hand across his mouth, he left the washroom and tried to turn the knob of the door to the left of the first one.

Assuming it was the exit, he grabbed the handle and was surprised to feel it turning in his hands-

_The door flew open!_

His balance still unsteady, Don was knocked to the floor.

Pulling himself up into a sitting position, he closed his eyes and rubbed his temples until the bright stars faded behind his lids.

Opening his eyes, he looked up into the milky face of a middle-aged woman, small laugh lines gently accenting the corners of her eyes. Her black hair cascaded down to her shoulders, pulled back with a blue headband, the small smile on her face warm and genial. She wore a loose button-down shirt with a pair of jeans and tennis shoes. Her posture was inviting, her left hand sitting loosely on the knob of the door, the right hand held closely at her side.

"What?" confused, Don only thought to ask- "who are you?"

Continuing to smile sweetly, the lady took a step into the room. As she came closer to Don, he was able to see into her eyes. They betrayed the serenity of her face, as their black cores slipped away into an unfathomable wilderness that threatened to entangle him.

"Why, don't you remember, Donny"-

She whipped her right hand around, exposing a taser gun and shooting an off-guard Don with it.

As Don felt the familiar pain flash through his worn body, and the small room began to recede, the last words that seeped into his conscious brain were-

"I'm Mommy."


	5. What She Did To You 1

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or any of the characters therein. Dr. Melinda Thompson is a made up name and character- it is not to be associated with any real or imaginary person.

Friday and Saturday, Dr. Melinda Thompson was very busy.

After she pushed Don into the trunk of her car Friday night, she risked injecting his right arm with a sedative. She did not want him waking up, for she had a long drive ahead of her. She then used an electric pump to fill the rear tire of her car. Once done, she drove to her home in Alta Sierra, a small community northeast of Bakersfield; the trip was long, taking almost six hours as she was careful of her cargo and refused to speed. She owned several acres of wooded land and had self-absorbed neighbors- together, they gave her more than enough privacy for what she planned.

Upon arriving home, Melinda opened the trunk and gently prodded Don.

He was still unconscious.

She knew he had been able to breathe. A long time before, as part of her preparations, she had cut several square openings into the separator between the back seat of her Lincoln and the trunk. She had also mounted a camera and small light along the inner panel of the trunk, so she could observe him while she drove. This contraption she removed from the trunk, placing it into a plastic bin next to the car. She took the small viewer that went with it from her rearview mirror, throwing it into the bin. Next, she pulled out three speakers from a shelf in the garage. These she placed into the openings in the separator behind the back seat.

They fit perfectly.

Melinda took Don's gun, wallet, and cell phone. Tearing apart the cell phone, she took a drill from the shelf and bore a hole through its locater card, placing it with the wallet and gun into the plastic bin. When she was done, she went into her house through a connecting door from her garage. Out she came with a wheelchair, two straps hanging from the right side; she set it up next to the trunk of the car, locking the wheels into place.

Carefully, Melinda placed her arms under Don's, pulling with her legs and dragging his body from the trunk of her car, his upper torso falling into the wheelchair as she could not hold his entire weight. With his legs still half in the trunk, Melinda put a strap across Don's shoulders, which held his body in place. She unlocked the wheelchair, and pulled back, Don's legs freed from the trunk and landing hard on the cement floor of the garage with a loud 'thud'.

Tugging his feet onto the foot rests of the wheelchair, Melinda fixed the second strap across Don's legs. Tired, she rested ten minutes before she pushed him to his new bedroom.

Once there, she had undone the straps on the wheelchair and pushed down the left arm. This allowed her to roll Don's limp body onto his bed. She moved aside the chair, and took off his belt, tie, dress shirt and shoes. When she wasn't so tired, she would take care of his pants.

Looking at the tie, shirt, and shoes, she thought-

_These are big boys' clothes- my little boy won't need these anymore._

So, after placing the belt into the top dresser drawer, she threw the other items into the bin in the garage.

Satisfied with her work, Melinda lay down in the master bedroom of her home, situated next door to her son's. Though excited, she was physically exhausted and soon fell asleep.

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Saturday morning, Melinda checked on Don and gave him another injection, this one milder than the last. She ate a quick breakfast, showered, and dressed. After checking on Don once again, she took the plastic bin from the garage and placed it into the back seat of her car. Opening the trunk, she checked it thoroughly for any other items, finding none but the blanket that Don had rested upon. This she threw behind her in the car as she got into the driver's seat. She then drove out of town and onto the highway. At several fast food restaurants along the road, she stopped and threw into open dumpsters- one by one- the items in the bin, ending with the blanket.

Satisfied, she headed home; she wanted to double-check that the room she would be using for Don's therapy was prepped and ready.

She was in the midst of putting sheets on a hospital bed when she heard a toilet flush.

Thank goodness we tend to be creatures of habit, Melinda had thought, as she grabbed her taser gun and entered Don's room. After saying a few words, she shot him, knocking him out, as he was still suffering the effects of the sedative she had given him.

Sighing, Melinda left Don on the floor.

When she finished with her work, she went back into Don's room; he remained unconscious on the floor. Standing behind his head, she crouched down and slipped her arms under his shoulders. Using her knees to lift, she pulled him up to a semi-standing position, twisting his body until it fell onto the bed.

Sitting down next to Don, Melinda knew she would not be able to keep up this physical exertion. She was fifty-three, and though in good physical condition, it would not be possible to lift him over and over again, all week long. Her original plan was to have had to lift him twice- once out of the trunk, the second when she rolled him into bed. Having miscalculated the sedative that morning, she had been forced into lifting him this third time because she had used the taser gun.

Between the therapy sessions she planned to start him on Sunday, the restriction she was placing on his food, and the sedatives she would be administering to him nightly, Melinda had no doubt that she would have physical control of Don.

The problem was in allowing him to have _some_ control- that is, have the ability to walk with her help. That way, she would not have to lift him. Instead, she could just guide him to where she wanted him to be. This would take some careful consideration, as she could not allow him to have too much energy- might escape- but she needed to allow him enough energy to walk on his own.

While she removed his pants- leaving him in boxers and undershirt- Melinda decided it would be best if she tried to wake Don up as soon as she could every morning. When he responded enough to walk, she would guide him to the therapy room and into his session.

Unfortunately, this meant she could not have a set time every day for the therapy sessions, which she had originally planned; being a highly organized person, Melinda was not happy with this arrangement. The only other thing she could do would be to guide Don into the therapy room, strap him in, and leave him there until the established time. She did not want to do this, because he might hurt himself trying to get out of the straps while the sedative wore off.

No- the therapy would have to occur according to the dictates of Don's body- no earlier and no later.

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It was Sunday morning, and Dr. Melinda Thompson was again very busy.

She sat in her living room, checking the controls for the portable electroconvulsive therapy unit she had bought from the estate of a former colleague. The size of an old Beta VCR, it weighed only twenty-two pounds. Looking over the compact unit, the psychiatrist was amazed that the little machine could produce the same effects as the old-fashioned ones she had seen as a graduate student. Both the new and the old machines worked essentially the same- they delivered measured volts of electricity to the brain through electrodes connected at the temples of the head; sometimes both electrodes were connected to one side of the head, sometimes on opposite sides. The subject's reaction to the electrical jolt was always a grand mal seizure- body convulsion, loss of control of bodily functions, and unconsciousness.

Melinda knew that in modern ECT, the subject was given general anesthesia, a sedative, and a muscle-relaxer; this meant that the resulting seizure occurred as nothing more than a body tremor, limiting the potential for body damage- like broken bones- that might happen during a grand mal seizure, as the subject's body twisted and arched upward. This also limited the subject's pain, as not only did the body not contort but the subject remained unconscious during the entire procedure.

Unfortunately, Melinda had not prepared the equipment necessary to give her son ECT without pain. She had cried many nights over the decision to forego the anesthesia and muscle-relaxer. But she was not trained to administer either, and even if she was, she would still need an extra pair of hands.

That was too risky.

She would just rely on the sedative she would be administering to him during the night before each therapy session; not only would she be able to control him more easily, but his body might be more relaxed than if he was fully awake, hopefully preventing the seizure from causing major damage to his body.

Melinda took the ECT unit into the back bedroom. It was her late husband's hospital bed that was set up in the room. Attached to the side railings were four soft leather straps, each with an adjustable circular cuff at the end. There was a flat pillow at the top of the bed, and a bottom sheet; there was no need for blankets. She placed the box on a small, plastic table at the head of the bed. There were also a sports mouth guard, two electrodes with wires, and a small tube of conductive jelly on the table.

Turning on the power to the small machine, Melinda was satisfied with how simple it was to use. The controls were on the front. All she had to do was enter the age and weight of the subject, then push the button, and the computerized machine would do the rest. On its own, the unit would administer and control the length and strength of the electrical 'jolt'; it would monitor the subject's heart rate; and it had a thin strip of lighting across the front that would show a bright, pulsing yellow throughout the duration of the seizure- that would then go to red when the seizure had subsided (this was important, as the body might still be in the throws of a seizure even when upon visual inspection it appeared the seizure had ended). The machine would even sound a little alarm- and not work- if the electrodes were not placed correctly on the head.

Even with all this modern technology, Melinda had wanted to test the machine out before using it on Don. Therefore, she had bought a supply of twenty-five large lab rats, hoping to check that the machine would be able to adjust for even the light weight of the rats. This it had not been able to do, as the animals were too small. However, the machine had refused to turn on, having detected that the electrodes were not placed where they would normally be on a human skull. This satisfied Melinda that the machine's built-in safety mechanisms would prevent her son from receiving an inappropriate treatment.

With a bit of anticipation, Melinda went to get her son.


	6. What She Did To You 2

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or any of the characters therein. Dr. Thompson is a fictional character and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

Don was still asleep when Melinda entered his room. He lay on his right side, breathing heavily through his mouth. She ran her fingers through his hair, noting how it had already begun to stick together from lack of washing, his face with two-day's stubble shadowing it. Before his session, he would have to be shaved. The hair growing on his face ruined the illusion she had planted in her mind of him as a little boy.

Still, he would not receive a bath or shower until his therapy sessions were over. She had decided that long before. When it was finally time for him to clean up, she would make it something special.

_You always remember when you give your child his first bath_- she thought.

Stepping next to Don, she shook his shoulder, gently at first, then harder when he seemed to rouse. Blinking open his eyes, he looked up at her and tried to move back- as far away from her as he could go. But Melinda just smiled, holding his left arm and pulling him up into a sitting position. He was too weak to resist.

"It's alright, baby," she soothed, running fingers up and down Don's arms.

She felt him shiver beneath her touch.

Melinda sat on the bed next to Don, placed his right arm around her back and helped him lift up from the bed. Still weary, Don stood up with her, his eyes darting around as he realized the exit door was open and they would be leaving the bedroom. Don walked with Melinda, using her for support, his senses weak from the injection she had given him, his vision cloudy.

She stopped at the bathroom door, asked Don if he needed to use it. Embarrassed, Don felt the sudden urge to urinate, but couldn't respond. Taking his silence for a yes, Melinda led him into the bathroom, leaning him against the sink while she helped him relieve himself.

Don kept his eyes closed from the moment he leaned against the sink, trying to think of anything else except the strange woman who was helping him perform such a personal bodily function.

When he finished, she placed his arm across her back again and led him from the bathroom, exiting out the bedroom door.

In Don's mind, he ran and ran, fleeing down the hallway to his left, passing the living room whose edge he saw, through the door he knew had to be there, the door that would give him access to the outside world.

In reality, he could only lean on Melinda, allowing her to take him down the opposite hall, to a room in which he saw a hospital bed lying flat, with nothing else around but a small table upon which sat a strange-looking machine.

So tired, so tired.

Melinda took Don to the hospital bed, scooting out from under his arm as she pushed her shoulder into his chest, the small movement causing him to sit on the bed's edge.

Don had no more strength left. The short walk down the hall had been too much for him. He lay down on his side, his feet still over the edge of the bed.

Melinda carefully lifted his legs onto the bed, turning Don over onto his back. She met no resistance. Don's eyes were already closed again, his breathing becoming shallow as he started to drift off to sleep.

Wasting no time, Melinda placed Don's wrists into the leather cuffs. She pulled on them to make sure they had enough leeway so that when Don's body started to convulse, he would not snap his wrists. She did the same for his ankles, noting wryly that she had forgotten to take off his socks; she quickly removed and tossed them aside.

She left the room to perform two more tasks before she started her son's therapy session. Going into her bedroom, she grabbed a bag containing items she had picked up from the pharmacy on her way to get Don Friday night. She grabbed a wash clothe from her sink, getting it damp. She carried it, along with the bag, back into the therapy room. There, she wet Don's face, and then she pulled an electric razor from the bag. Putting in batteries that she had also picked up, she performed her first task of shaving his face, doing so until she was satisfied his skin was smooth, though slightly pink.

Don's only response was to look at her once or twice, incomprehension apparent in his eyes.

Next, she pulled out a package of adult incontinency briefs. Though she had taken him to the bathroom before his session, the fact remained that during the seizures he would most likely lose control of his bodily functions. Taking care of that last task, Melinda set about to start Don's first session.

Carefully, she attached the electrodes to the ECT unit. She squirted out a dime's worth of conductive jelly onto each of the electrodes, attaching one on either side of Don's temple, above and a little behind each eyebrow. Without the jelly, his skin would burn at the contact point with the electrode. Next, she pried open his mouth, placing the sports guards inside, careful that they were properly placed.

At that, Don opened his eyes- _wide_- his consciousness awakening as he started to salivate. Reaching to remove the objects from his mouth, he was suddenly aware he could not move his hand. He tried his other hand- nothing. Starting to squirm, he weakly moved side to side, trying to escape the straps that bound him.

Melinda cooed softly in Don's ear, trying to calm him. When he looked up at her, he saw a portion of the wire hanging from his head. His eyes slowly followed it up to its end at the ECT unit. Mentally, panic overcame Don, but his body could not respond to the fear in his mind; it did not have the energy to physically express what he felt.

Seeing that her words were having no effect on Don, Melinda stopped trying to calm him down.

She flipped on the ECT switch.

And waited patiently while Don started to convulse.

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Don did not know what the wires coming from his head meant.

He did not understand anything that was happening to him.

He could not move- not his arms, not his legs.

He felt as if he hadn't slept in months.

He wanted to get away-

far away.

Far from the bedroom with the baseballs on the sheets and the blue toy box.

Far from this hospital bed and its straps and wires.

But, especially, far from this woman whose touch made him shiver.

And whose voice made him shake.

Don got his wish.

Because suddenly he was on the sun, and everything was bright, burning bright- and there was pain, so much pain; he felt a hundred hands trying to pull him apart- his body arching up to brush lightning that began flashing all around him, brighter and hotter than the sun-

As quickly as the storm began, it was over.

Don got his wish.

He was far away, falling into unconsciousness once again, far from everyone and everything he feared.

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Melinda turned off the ECT unit. It had run only seven seconds, but Don's body continued to actively convulse for a full minute. When the unit showed a red light, she knew the seizure was over and she could check on Don.

She undid the cuffs around his wrists and ankles, rubbing them to check for any breaks or sprains.

Nothing. Good.

She ran her hands up and down Don's body, squeezing here and there for signs of damage, finding nothing.

Good.

Melinda removed the electrodes from Don's temples and the guards from his mouth, hiding them along with the ECT unit in the closet. She went to get baby wipes and cleaned Don up before he could awaken; she did not want to unnecessarily embarrass him.

All that was left was the waiting game.

Waiting for Don to wake up.

Melinda sat on the edge of the bed, wanting to have a look into Don's eyes the moment they opened.

They did, almost thirty minutes later.

She was pleased to see the confusion in his eyes. He stared at her, not knowing who she was. Not certain who he was. He moved his jaw around, trying to loosen it up.

"Come on baby," Melinda said, helping Don pull up into a sitting position.

Again, she wrapped his arm around her back, and led Don back to his bedroom, helping him lie down on the bed. She fixed his pillow under his head at a tilted angle.

"Are you hungry, baby?" Melinda asked Don.

Confused by his surroundings and the woman in front of him, Don could not respond, so his stomach answered for him. It emitted a quiet rumbling sound.

Melinda smiled.

"I'll be right back, baby," she purred, leaving Don lying on the bed.

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Don was confused.

The electroconvulsive therapy had left him disoriented. He could not concentrate on any of the objects in the room- they all seemed to be swimming around him. Closing his eyes, he found that it was hard to focus on anything in there, too.

The events of the past few days were completely lost to him.

The last memory he had was of something cold, cold on his tongue- Don licked his lips, trying to remember the taste.

It was chocolate- cold chocolate, and I was eating it with-

Here, Don was stopped short.

Who was I eating it with?

As he settled into the bed and tried to relax, the memories he had stored before Friday evening came swirling back into his head, slowly, like good soldiers.

Charlie.

He had been eating fudgcicles with Charlie.

My brother- my younger brother and math genius.

Within twenty minutes of awakening, Don had all his memories back, except those from Friday evening on. He had no memories of the electroconvulsive therapy he had received, or of Melinda performing it on him.

Don began to ponder his current predicament; he did not even know how he had ended up in the room he was in. He felt like he had jumped from the park with Charlie into this room- like in a science fiction movie, or something. He wanted to ask the lady how he had gotten there, but he was too tired to move his lips.

That was something else he wanted to ask- why did he feel like he had been hit by a semi truck? Every inch of his body ached- so bad, that just lying on the bed made the muscles on the back of his arms and legs sore. Added to that was a throbbing that dwelled right behind his forehead.

Don rubbed his temples, wondering if he had been in an accident- had this lady taken him in to care for him. If so, why hadn't she called the police? Or his family?

Worn out by all the thinking he had done, Don began to fall asleep, the answers to his questions far beyond his grasp.

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Melinda smiled at Don's limp form. She was not surprised that he had fallen asleep. She knew the therapy was going to wear her son down, but she would be there in the end to help build him back up.

Settling herself next to Don's head, Melinda gently lifted up his pillow and slid her left leg underneath it. Then, she grabbed one of the two baby bottles she had balanced on the bed next to her.

When she was in the kitchen, she had filled the bottles with adult supplementary drinks; according to the cans, she would be providing Don with the nutrients of two meals. Since he hadn't eaten for almost three days, Melinda thought it was a good idea to supply this amount of nourishment. If he became too strong, she figured she could always cut back until his therapy sessions had ended.

Now, she ran her fingers through Don's hair, quietly trying to wake him up. When he opened his eyes partway, she used her left hand to firmly hold his chin still. Next, she used her right hand to hold the bottle, placing its nipple in his mouth, the tip down between his teeth. Cupping the bottle in her palm, with her right thumb she pushed down the plunger on the side of the bottle, forcing liquid into Don's mouth.

His response was immediate.

Don's eyes opened all the way as he felt the cool liquid in his mouth. When he saw where it was coming from, he tried to turn his head, but could not move it out of Melinda's strong grip. He let a few ounces run down his chin, trying to avoid swallowing- but gravity and his own hunger got the best of him. When the first few drops made it down his throat, he instinctively swallowed. His stomach demanded more, and he began gulping as fast as his mouth was filled.

Don found it hard to breathe; he was swallowing so fast that he had to concentrate to prevent the liquid from going down the wrong tube, his hands loosely clenching the sheets on the bed and his entire body tense.

Melinda saw Don's discomfort. When he finished the first bottle, she quickly replaced it with the second- but did not press down the plunger.

Without the liquid pouring into his mouth and throat, Don's body relaxed and his hands unclenched. His hunger, however, remained, and he waited for the coolness in his mouth to return.

It didn't.

Raising his eyes to Melinda's, Don saw the expectation in her eyes. He brought his eyes back down, trying to look ahead, the bottle blocking his view.

Closing his eyes, he could taste the rubber of the nipple; feel its smooth texture around his lips. But the center of his tongue was focused on a drop of milky-thick liquid that clung to the tip- just strong enough to make Don's body hurt for more.

Don's physical need won over his emotional pride.

Despite the utter humiliation and against his better instincts, Don began to suck on the bottle.

After he had drained the last drop, Melinda pulled the bottle from his lips and moved out from beneath his pillow. She went into the bathroom and came back with a wipe, intending to clean his face.

Don wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved that a third bottle was not offered. He tried to ignore the woman who was wiping away the spilled liquid on his chin and neck. When she finally got up to leave, Don turned over onto his left side, facing the wall, trying to make a barrier between them.

Melinda refused to let him put up that wall.

Leaning over him, she rubbed his arm and pressed her lips against his head, telling him softly-

"You're such a good little boy, Donny, so good."


	7. How She Finished You

Disclaimer: I do not own Numb3rs or the characters therein. Melinda Thompson is an imaginary character who should not be associated with any other person- real or fictional.

Author's note: Completely revamped the chapter. Questions about the ECT- yes, many case histories of people losing memory- depends on how much treatment and the individual person- even skills they had learned (read a person lost their master's level education). All the articles I read state that no one is really sure how ECT works- many theories, many indicate there is always brain damage. So many possibilities, I chose the ones that fit this story- hope I answered more with this rewrite. Next- though the complete loss of identity in Don seems to jive with what I read on ECT- I changed his transformation so he is not a completely clean slate- though close to one- because we want something of _him _in the story, and at least a chance of him getting back to his old self. Also, I think I wrote Melinda out of character- I don't think she would ever lose control. Thanks for the reviews- always, always appreciated.

Melinda continued to administer the electroconvulsive therapy to Don- one session each day of the week. She knew it would take anywhere from six to twelve sessions for the effects to "take"- in other words, cause enough damage to his brain so the effects would remain over time. Combined with Don's weakened physical state, she estimated it would be no more than six sessions.

She was wrong.

It took eight.

Administering the ECT became a daily routine. She woke Don up, administered the therapy, and fed him once he was settled in his bedroom again. As he became weaker, Melinda began to forego their morning walk to the bathroom, opting to clean him up after the treatment and before he became conscious again. By Wednesday, Don no longer needed the nightly sedatives, as he could barely stay awake at any point during the day or night. Melinda was quite satisfied with the results of her therapy- all except the bottle-feeding.

Don resisted her every time.

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The effects of the ECT upon Don's memory were gradual and severe.

After Monday's session, he lost several months. He tried to remember the last case he had worked on.

When he woke from Tuesday's session, he thought he was at the academy at Quantico. He promised himself he would seek Terry out once this crazy training session was over.

After Wednesday's session, he began to lose places. He remembered doing such and such, but could not pinpoint where. Names of his high school and college disappeared, as well as the various cities he had lived in.

Thursday, he awoke wondering who he was. He dreamed fitfully as he could not remember anything but his first name- Don. People began slipping away from him- his first girlfriend, his prom date, his girlfriend at Quantico, the woman he had asked to marry him, then his aunts, uncles, and cousins.

The session on Friday took away his training. His college education, his Bureau training and experience- all disappeared in a flash.

Saturday's session stole the rest of his history. The people, the places, the things that made up his life became spectral images that, when he reached for them, were ungraspable. Slowly, they floated away. Somehow, he clung to the images of two men- one older, one younger. Clawing through his mind toward them, he tried to keep them within his reach.

But it was Sunday's therapy session- his eighth treatment-that filed away the last layer that had comprised Special Agent Don Eppes. As he burst into flames once again, the vague memory he had of his father and brother broke free from his mind and he was left with the unreachable fragments of his life.

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Melinda laid Don on his bed. He was sticky from the sweat of his final therapy session- and from going over a week without taking a shower or bath- his boxers and t-shirt grimy and clinging to his skin in several spots.

Still, he was clean-shaven, just as she liked him to be. She went to get his dinner.

Don lay motionless in the bed. His eyes stared forward, not really seeing anything. The only awareness he had was of the pains in his body- especially his head. Lights danced through his vision, the ceiling a wavy palette of blue. As awareness slowly came to him, a thick stream of emotions flooded over him: confusion, tension, anxiety, and, most of all, fear.

Don licked his lips, but there was no taste.

When Don thought about the last few days, he remembered nothing.

When he glanced around the bedroom, he recognized nothing.

He was surrounded by blankets, but everything inside him was so cold.

And terrifying.

Don closed his eyes, searching his mind for even a small part of his life-just a name of someone he knew, just a place, just _his _name. He could feel that the fringes of his life were somewhere inside his head, but there were bright lights shining behind everyone and everything, so brilliant he could not look straight at them, he could not make a direct connection to them. And when he looked for alternate routes to reach them, he found he was surrounded by darkness so thick that he became lost in his own mind.

Melinda entered the room.

Don stared at her, mentally reached out to her as his only touch-point with reality.

She offered a small smile to him.

"How's my baby doing, huh?" she asked, setting herself beside Don's head.

Her eyes surveyed Don's. Melinda could see the therapy sessions had worked by the hollowness at the center of his eyes, and the fear that circled them. She knew that everything was going to be perfect, just perfect.

Melinda carefully touched Don's temples, gently probing them. They were soft and mushy to her touch. From the way his head felt and her knowledge of ECT, she was certain that Don had suffered some degree of traumatic brain injury from the electrical current that had traveled through his head. In response to the injury, the natural fluid in his brain had increased, causing the brain to swell and the excess fluid to leak into the cranial cavity, as it had nowhere to drain. Though there was the possibility it could heal, the pressure of the swelling and liquid on the brain would currently be causing several adverse physical and emotional problems within Don.

First, she knew that Don was suffering memory loss; every time he had awakened from his therapy sessions, he had asked more and more questions, apparently forgetting a larger portion of his life after each one had finished. The shards of his life were still in his mind; but the connections his brain needed to make, in order to smooth the edges and melt those pieces back together, were cut off from one another. They would not reconnect until his brain had healed.

Next, she had noted that his levels of anxiety and fear were increasing. This she observed when she entered his room unannounced, as he would startle at her voice, his eyes moving wildly about the room until he found the source of the sound, his body quaking until she had calmed him with soothing touches and assuring words.

Then, there was his control of his muscles. Melinda noticed that Don became extremely tired when trying to say more than a few one-syllable words, as if it took all his energy to move his mouth; by Friday, he rarely said more than that each time he tried to communicate. Some words he could not remember, but the main problem was that the physical effort of speaking was too much for him.

This weakness was also apparent in his coordination. Sometimes it was hard for him to do something as simple as pulling his blankets over himself at night, as he appeared to have difficulty in getting all five of his fingers to work together.The pressure on Don's brain was effectively stopping many of his neurological signals from reaching the correct receptors in his body, and from reaching each other within his brain- the pressure was a tight defense line; his mind was derailed, short-circuited.

In this mangled state, Don stared up at Melinda. He searched the small remains of memory in his mind, trying to pick the one that would identify who she was. He saw the long black hair and warm smile of a fleeting spectral that dissipated when he reached for her. He knew in his heart that the image was his mother, but did not know if it coincided with the person that currently bent over him, smiling and rubbing his temple.

Don strained to form the words-

"Who are you?"

"Why, I'm your mommy. And you," Melinda explained quietly, "You're my little boy, Donny Thompson."

_Donny- that feels right. I think that is my name. _

Not being able to give forth the effort needed to debate the validity of the woman's identity, Don closed his eyes, his weary body begging for sleep.

Melinda continued to smile at Don, kissing him on the forehead. When he winced, she asked "Does your head hurt, baby?"

Eyes still shut, Don managed to murmur-

"Hurts bad."

Melinda left the room, returning with a glass of water and two painkillers. She held Don's head up and helped him take the pills, holding the water to his lips.

Don waited for the pills to take effect. He felt Melinda move behind his head, and then the smooth touch of a rubber nipple.

Opening his eyes, Don forced his head away from the bottle. There was a shallow pool of dignity still flowing through Don, which welled up in defense against his being treated in such a degrading manner.

"Drink your dinner, Donny- do what Mommy tells you," Melinda ordered.

Melinda tried to hold Don's head in place, but he kept his face turned away.

Sighing, Melinda placed the bottle next to Don's pillow and got up from the bed. She knew Don's disobedience did not mean it was necessary to have more therapy sessions.

Don's mind was already broken.

No- now she would have to work on breaking his will.

Don turned over to face the wall, his body demanding sleep. His breathing was becoming heavy when he felt Melinda's hand pushing against his back. Don's body was so weak it complied with the pressure, allowing her to turn him onto his stomach, while Melinda leaned a knee into his back. He was aware of his boxers being pulled down, cool air on his buttocks the only sensation,

till-

_whack!_

Don's body tried to escape, pull away from the pain, but Melinda continued to lash him with his doubled-up belt, once, twice, three times, the thick leather forming welts at each spot it hit his bare bottom. Don was helpless to fight her, though he tried to twist out from under her. This garnered him three more lashes.

The pain was too much and he was too tired. Don stopped struggling, though his body shook.

"Donny- will you be a good boy and drink your dinner?" Melinda asked, not moving from her position above Don.

Trying to breathe through the fire burning his backside, Don mumbled-

"Yes."

Putting a little more of her weight onto her knee, Melinda ground into Don's back.

Whimpering, tears started to flow down Don's cheek.

"Yes- what?" Melinda asked.

Don did not know what to say.

"Yes, Mommy," Melinda provided, waiting patiently for Don to respond.

"Yes, Mommy," he cried, "Please."

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Don lay on his right side, staring at the dresser and the belt that Melinda had purposely left on top of it next to the television, coiled like a black snake about to strike. His bottom was too sore for him to lie on his back. When he had awakened that morning, the stubbornness in him caused him to refuse Melinda's offer of a bottle once again.

She had whipped him twice as hard and twice as long as the night before.

Mistakenly, Don had thought he had enough energy to fend her off. But when he had tried to use physical force, he discovered she was much stronger than he was in his current condition. He had also hesitated to really fight Melinda, as she appeared to be his mother.

It just wasn't in him to hurt his mother.

So, he had suffered the punishment she had dealt, and then caved in and sucked down two more bottles. Because of his injuries, Melinda had lain down next to Don in his bed. She had been lying on her back while Don faced her on his side, placing the bottle across her breast so he could drink. For some reason he could not understand, Don had felt comforted by the whole procedure, forgetting the pain that Melinda had so recently inflicted upon him. He had no idea that his brain was twisting up the loving memories he had of his real mother and his experiences with the insane woman in front of him, Melinda bearing such a strong resemblance to the wisps of Margaret Eppes that he had left in his head.

Turning his head toward the bathroom door, Don could see Melinda moving back and forth within the small room. She was running water for his first bath in over a week. Both of them were looking forward to it.

Hearing the water stop running, Don watched as Melinda came into his bedroom, her usual smile upon her face.

"Come on, baby," she said, helping Don lean forward and pull up, so he could avoid sitting before standing up.

Once he was on his feet, she helped him walk into the bathroom, undress and relieve himself. He felt little embarrassment; after all, Melinda _was _his mother.

Don stood naked next to the bathtub, looking at the bubbles that covered the surface of the water within. Leaning on Melinda, he stepped into the hot water and slowly began to sit down, gritting his teeth in anticipation of feeling the hard porcelain against his aching bottom. To his surprise, he felt the softness of an air-filled plastic cushion, which allowed him to sit without much discomfort. Relaxing, he put his head back against the tub and closed his eyes, letting the heat of the bath massage his body and ease the tension in his muscles.

Melinda let Don soak in the bathtub for twenty minutes before she began to clean him. He had gone so long without so much as a shower, it was a necessary step in order for her to get all the dirt and grime off him. After she crouched on her knees, she dropped three items into the tub. While she wet a wash clothe and covered it with soap, she addressed Don-

"Play with your toys, baby."

Opening his eyes and dragging himself into a sitting position, Don looked in front of him.

Three small plastic boats floated on the water. Despite recent history, Don allowed the sight of them to anger him. A portion of his personality reared itself up, a small piece of pride.

He wasn't a baby and would not be treated that way.

Not even by his mother.

Turning his head to look Melinda straight in the face, he challenged her with a strong "No."

Calmly, she put the soap and wash clothe in the sink. Don tensed up as he saw her leave the room and go to the dresser in his bedroom, picking up the belt that still resided on top. When she came back into the bathroom, his resolve ran scared and Don began pushing the boats back and forth, fearful of the leather beast that Melinda had wound around her right hand.

Melinda grabbed hold of Don's hair with her left hand, pulling his squirming body from the water and bending him over the side of the tub. Leaning over his exposed posterior, she lashed his wet skin three times.

Don screamed.

Melinda dropped the belt to the ground and helped Don slide back into the tub. He started crying when he sat all the way down, the cushion little help against his sharply stinging skin.

After placing the belt back on the dresser, Melinda re-entered the bathroom, took up her position by the tub, and began to clean Don again.

"Play with your toys, baby."

Don was crying so hard he couldn't see; his shoulders heaved from the harshness of his sobs. Still, he managed to move the boats back and forth with his open hand.

"Good little boys don't say no to their mommy," Melinda explained. "If you don't do what I say _when_ I say it, you're going to be punished- even if you change your mind and try to do what I say later."

She emphasized-

"Once you say no, it's too late- there's no going back. I have to teach you."

"Do you understand, Donny?"

Trying to suck in some air so he could answer, Don managed to breathe out a whispery-

"Yes, Mommy."

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Melinda folded up a thick towel and placed it on the lid of the toilet. She helped Don out of the tub and to slowly sit down. Using another towel, she dried Don off, and then she grabbed the electric razor and shaved him. When she finished, she brushed his teeth and combed his hair, using a touch of mousse to style it.

She helped Don into his bedroom, directing him to lean forward and place his hands on the dresser. Grabbing a large puff, she dabbed baby powder all over his naked body, from his shoulders down to his feet. After applying deodorant to his underarms, she carefully applied some salve to his bottom, checking to make sure she had not broken his skin open.

Finally, she helped him put on some fresh boxers, jeans, and a t-shirt. Don was beginning to feel good all over, the result of his bath and some pain pills that Melinda had given him after breakfast finally taking effect- even his bottom felt well, the medicine doing its job and soothing the redness from his tormented skin. He sat down in the lazy boy chair, watching as Melinda took the sheets, pillowcases, and blankets off of his bed; she sprayed the top of his mattress and flipped it over to its opposite side. She then put on fresh bedding, this time the pattern reflecting the many faces of a famous cartoon rabbit.

She told Don to sit on his bed- which he did unhesitatingly- and then she put a cartoon DVD in for him to watch. She cleaned his bathroom, grabbing his discarded clothing and towels, picked up his dirty linen, and left the bedroom, locking the door behind her.

Don watched the television, losing himself in the innocent antics of the characters on the screen, trying to keep his eyes off the belt that was constant companion to the television on the dresser.

Melinda went into her bedroom to grab the next item she planned to use in her quest to break Don's will. Of course, the first had been the belt. She knew that leaving the belt in Don's sight would always remind him what would happen if he disobeyed her. The resulting fear would help suppress any oppositional behavior.

But she needed a reinforcer for the good behavior she wanted from him.

This reinforcer she pulled from a plastic bag she had lying on her bed.

In her hands, Melinda held a medium-sized stuffed toy rabbit. It was light brown, with large floppy ears and feet. It was extremely soft, its filling made of goose down. She ran her fingers over the stuffed toy, pleased with its texture; its fur was actually comprised of small strings, which allowed her to wrap her fingers up in it.

Melinda's plan to reinforce certain desired behavior in Don was actually quite simple. She was going to make him hold onto the rabbit. When he was good, he would be allowed to keep the rabbit, a physical and visual indication that she approved of his current behavior. When he was bad, she would take it away. This would be a physical and visual indication that she did not approve of his behavior. Plus, if she took the rabbit away before carrying out any punishment, the effect of the consequence would be amplified by the fear that would be caused by Don's knowledge of what was to come and then having to wait for it to occur.

Picking up the rabbit, she went to Don's bedroom, unlocked the door, and entered, holding it by its feet behind her back.

Don looked over to her.

He wasn't sure what to think about his mother coming into his room with her hands behind her back and with a strange smile on her face.

Quickly, his eyes darted to the dresser to make sure the belt was still there.

It was.

Looking back to Melinda, he sat in trepidation while she came to his bed and sat next to him.

"Guess what, Donny? Mommy has a surprise for you!"

Don just sat rigid, waiting for her to continue. The word "surprise" conjured up so many horrible images of slithering creatures with buckles for mouths that he was afraid to see what she had.

Pulling the rabbit from behind her back, she placed it in Don's hands, clapping her own twice with excitement.

Using his hands the best he could, Don touched the rabbit's fur, pressing his open palms against the softness of its body.

"What do you say, Donny?"

"Thanks, Mommy."

Don continued to check out the rabbit, not quite trusting it to be as gentle as it appeared.

"What's his name, Donny? You have to name him."

Somewhere in his mind, Don was drawn to follow a broken path to the name of a face and body that made him feel safe, to a person who made him feel as if he was home. That person was fragile and soft, and needed gentleness when handling him, just like the small creature he held in his hands. Don did not immediately know what that person's name was- he tried to think really hard, travel around the pictures that continued to scatter beyond his reach, all vague and curling images. Don finally abandoned his wasted mind, searching his soul instead, finding the person's name in his heart, where the electrical impulses of his therapy had failed to completely wash out everything that flowed deeply throughout his blood.

"Hey, Buddy," he said to the rabbit, trying to please his mother.

Melinda _was_ pleased. She had feared that Don with come up with the name of his father or, worse, his brother, or even a friend or coworker. She did not want the rabbit to remind him of his old life, but to be one of the means by which she was going to give him his new life.

With this goal in mind, she decided to start using the rabbit right away.

"Donny, put your thumb in your mouth."

Don looked at her. He felt this was something new to him, and did not particularly want to do it. However, he could see the belt past Melinda's shoulder, so he put his right thumb in his mouth, moving it around to get the feel and taste of it.

Neither was pleasing, so he took his thumb back out, wanting to tell his mother it was "yucky".

Melinda was too swift for him.

She grabbed Buddy from Don's hands, hid him behind her, and slapped Don hard across the face- all in one fluid motion.

Tears swelled into Don's eyes, his left cheek growing red. He quickly put his thumb back in his mouth- and Melinda quickly returned Buddy.

"Now, keep it there," Melinda directed.

She left to get herself a book to read, returning to sit in the recliner.

Don did not have the energy to hold his arm bent at the angle that would allow his thumb to remain in his mouth, so he laid down on his right side, watching cartoons and propping his right hand within the mounds of his pillow, his thumb carefully kept within his mouth. Afraid he would be hit again if he let go of Buddy, Don held him under his left arm.

Melinda hummed contentedly to herself when she observed Don's behavior.

Because, she was sure, it was an indication his old life was effectively over.


	8. How They Abandoned You

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. Any character not found on the show is fictional, and should not be associated with any person- real or imagined.

David and Colby stormed from the room, pounding their way to the elevator and an early afternoon drink. They planned on taking a cab, as hard liquor would be their forte.

Megan exited after them, her features drawn and her body limp.

She drew her hand across her forehead, brushing away a few strands of loose hair. Closing her eyes, she leaned against the nearest wall, concentrating on breathing. She would have remained that way all day if she could have, but, unfortunately, she was forced back to her responsibilities by the voice of one of the only two people in the world she desperately did not want to see at that moment. Or, she guiltily admitted, at any time at all.

"Are you alright?" Charlie asked Megan.

Bracing herself, she opened her eyes but looked away from him.

"Yeah- I'm just a little tired."

Charlie felt sorry for Megan.

It had been nearly a month since the task force to find Don had been formed. Charlie felt certain that Megan had been sleeping very little ever since she had taken charge of the investigation into his brother's disappearance. She seemed to take it as her personal responsibility to find Don and bring him home safely.

This neither she nor her task force had been able to do.

There just wasn't any useful information. They had talked to every single informant they had in the greater Los Angeles area, even tapping the ones that the LAPD had on hand. Nobody had heard anything about Don, though more than a few had tried to take credit; but it was apparent they were lying, their statements as to when and how he had disappeared inaccurate, and, in many cases, absolutely ridiculous.

The physical evidence was no better.

The tire tracks had led nowhere. Thousands of cars were using that particular brand and size, as they were popularly sold at a mega-mart chain store. It was also impossible to narrow down the make of the car, other than they knew it was a larger-sized one, like a Cadillac or Lincoln.

As for witnesses- there were none. Most of the people in Don's apartment complex had been out on the Friday night that he disappeared. The others had been locked up tight in their apartments, not bothering to look out their windows at just the right moment. No one had noticed a strange car parked there the night of his disappearance, or at anytime during the week before. None of the tenants could even tell them what makes of cars their neighbors drove, as they were too wrapped up in their own lives to notice anybody else's.

As the case went nowhere, the members of the task force had become tired and disheartened. They had begun to feel that all they did was interview uninformed people, and then review over and over again the same pictures of Don's SUV, apartment, and parking lot. Slowly, less time was being spent on his case as others came in, the individual agents finding more and more reasons to be busy working on something else.

There had certainly been no magical break in the case; that is, until that morning. Megan- as task force leader- as well as David and Colby- as Don's team members- had been called into a meeting with Assistant Director Merrick and Director Donaldson.

Unceremoniously, Donaldson had announced the dissolution of the task force.

While everyone else in the room sat stumped, he proceeded to explain that Homeland Security had received confirmation from a 'very reliable international informant' that Don had been kidnapped, tortured, and murdered; all this was in retaliation for his killing of an assassin valued highly by the Columbian Cartel. The informant guaranteed that his body would never be found.

Relying on this vague information, the Bureau had decided to stop looking for Don, though Donaldson assured those present that the case would remain 'open'. As for Megan, David, and Colby- they would meet their new team leader at the end of the week. During the interim, they could work on writing and closing up the task force files.

Her throat dry, Megan tried to protest. Though she felt the task force had been voluntarily dissolved by its disillusioned members days- _maybe a couple weeks_- before, she still wanted to be able to work on the case herself. She felt obligated to the Eppes, and to her friend and colleague.

Megan was surprised when she was interrupted by a stronger and louder voice. Merrick was arguing heatedly with Donaldson- Eppes had been- _was_- one of his best men, putting his life on the line numerous times, living and breathing his job in full dedication to the Bureau. He did not deserve to be abandoned. The assistant director threatened to resign if the case was not allowed to remain active. Donaldson reluctantly agreed, not wanting the scandal Merrick's resignation would undoubtedly cause. Don's team members were given permission to continue their search; but their caseload would remain the same, which in and of itself would be effective in closing them down. The task force_ would_ be dissolved, and no one else would be allowed to continue to help- on that, the director was adamant.

Not satisfied in the least, Merrick relented; he knew it was the most they could get from Donaldson.

Colby, remembering his words to Charlie when Don first disappeared, inquired-

"What about the reward money? Shouldn't we have had a press conference and offered a reward by now?"

"Usually, yes, we would be offering a reward-typically thirty days after any agent of Eppes' stature went missing. Unfortunately, that will not be possible at this time."

The agents all made disapproving noises, as Donaldson explained-

"Unfortunately, we have had another person disappear in the Los Angeles area. That is the real reason I am hear- I will be making the announcement at 10:00 in front of this office building. I gather you have all heard of Tommy Larson?"

Immediate understanding washed over the agents.

Tommy Larson was a multi-millionaire playboy and media darling, the cameras seeming to be permanently attached to his personal caravan. He was also the only child of a certain deceased actor. The nation seemed to be waiting for him to take up the trade and become like his beloved father, who was also known for his philanthropist work worldwide. Everyone had high expectations for him- that is, everyone but the young man himself. He preferred to splurge his money on expensive toys and thrill-seeking physical ventures, bungee jumping off buildings illegally and breaking into amusement parks to climb roller coasters at night.

Tommy was spoiled- but loved- American royalty.

When the news was announced that he had gone missing, every media channel in the western world would be focused on the search to find Tommy Larson. They would also be targeting the L.A. office of the F.B.I., as his girlfriend had assumedly received a ransom note, the assumed kidnapping making the Bureau responsible for his safe return.

It was going to be a circus beyond compare.

As an indirect result, the disappearance of an unknown F.B.I. agent would no longer be worthy of a local newsletter, whether alone any of the major networks or newspapers; a press conference was out of the question. Nor could Donaldson offer a reward, because he could not risk tying up the phone lines with people trying to obtain the reward for Don, when the Bureau needed those lines for reports about Tommy. He had no other choice in his decisions.

The responsibility for finding Don Eppes now officially lay on the shoulders of his three friends and coworkers.

That realization had ended their meeting, and had sent David and Colby to the bar, and Megan into further exhaustion.

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Charlie followed Megan into the staff lounge and waited while she poured herself a large mug of black coffee. Not bothering with sweetener, she sat at a corner table, gathering the emotional strength she would need to apprise Charlie of the current setback. She considered waiting to talk to him at his home, where Alan would also be present.

Don's father's face decided for her. She remembered how he'd looked the previous time she had talked to him- so old and depressed, hopeful lines around his eyes settling into deeper worry when she had reported there was no news of his son, the sadness leaking from every pore in his body. She knew she would never be able to face him with the current news, both that the Bureau had given up on finding Don, and that an informant had reported him dead. It was going to be hard enough to speak to Charlie- better that he handled telling his dad.

Turning a chair around and sitting down, Charlie leaned his elbows on the back of the chair, his fingers lightly tracing patterns along the hard plastic. He could see that Megan was having a hard time saying something; he didn't want to pressure her because he wasn't sure he wanted to hear it. So, he let her go at her own pace, letting her delay what he assumed was bad news as long as possible.

Taking a deep breath, Megan let it all out at once-

"Charlie, Homeland Security has indicated that Don was murdered, so Donaldson has resolved the task force and will be assigning a new team leader to me, David and Colby."

Charlie's hands stopped moving. A small tremor began running up his legs, reaching his mouth as he spoke, making his voice shaky-

"What does Homeland Security have to do with anything?"

Megan recounted what was said at their meeting with Donaldson. She ended by apologizing that the Bureau could not offer a reward or hold a press conference, explaining about Tommy Larson.

"But you and David and Colby will still be working the case?" he asked hopefully.

"Yes, Charlie," she confirmed. Much as she disliked doing it, Megan had to make him understand the seriousness of losing the task force manpower.

"But we'll be limited in what we can do. On top of Don's, we'll still be expected to work our regular caseload. This will decrease the amount of time we will have to work on finding him. We will not be able to go looking for new information- we'll have to rely on it coming to us."

Charlie's limp body language told her he understood. The only way they were going to find Don was if either he or his kidnapper walked into the Bureau office all on his own.

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It was a long ride down in the elevator for Charlie; he wished it could go on forever. That way, he would never have to face his father.

Alan already had a mistrust and loathing of the F.B.I., fueled by his experiences with the agency during protests he had attended in the early seventies. Charlie was sure that their abandonment of Don would set him over the top emotionally; he was already strained to the breaking point.

When Don had first disappeared, Alan and Charlie had assured each other that, with the best agents on the task force, it would only be a matter of a few days before he would be found. As the first week moved into the second- and then into the third- with no news forthcoming, those assurances were no longer spoken, as both Eppes men seemed to wander off into his own world to wait, limiting their contacts with their family and friends- people who tried to comfort, but whose questions only highlighted the fact that Don was still gone.

Wrapped up in his work, it took a while for Charlie to notice his father had started spending most of his time away from the house. He thought his father was working at his consulting business, much as Charlie tried to stay busy at school and in his garage, making time pass so it would quickly get to the day that Don would come home.

It wasn't until Alan's business partner had called several days previous that he began to get worried about how his father was occupying his time.Sam had informed Charlie that Alan had decided to sell his share of their business. He had confessed to his friend that the emotional stress of losing his eldest son was already too much for him, and it would be impossible for him to work. Sam was calling to inform Alan that the final papers were ready to be signed, but if he changed his mind, he would be glad to tear them up.

That night, Charlie had confronted Alan. His own emotions overwrought from the lack of information about his brother, Charlie had demanded to know where his father was going all day and sometimes most of the night, when he should really be at home in case Megan called with news about Don. Alan had sat hunched over the dining room table. He had quietly explained to Charlie that he could not remain inactive in the search for Don, and that he felt compelled to look for his eldest himself. Not knowing what else to do, his time was spent driving up and down the streets of L.A., desperately looking for his son's familiar face. Alan confessed that he knew it was crazy, but he couldn't think of anything or anyone else but Don, so he drove and drove and drove, some small spark within himself forcing him to action- no matter how pointless it appeared.

Charlie had stopped spending time in the garage after that talk. For the last few days, when he wasn't at work, he would join his father, offering a second set of eyes to look for their missing family member. In reality, he was keeping his eyes on Alan. Charlie was afraid he would lose him, too.

After he exited the elevator, Charlie was not paying particular attention to where he was going. He felt someone shove him in the chest-

"Hey, back exit, back exit."

Suddenly aware of his current surroundings, Charlie looked past the guard who had thrown an arm across his path, seeing a crowd of people gathered outside the front doors of the building.

There were over a hundred media personnel outside, microphones held high while they clamored to record the announcement of Tommy Larson's disappearance- and the hundred thousand dollar reward money that was being offered for information about it.

A cold chill ran through the core of Charlie's body.

Anger so strong seeped into him it was as if he had frozen stiff in a matter of seconds.

_That damn worthless rich playboy who has never done anything good in his life had stolen his brother's task force, stolen his brother's press, and was now stealing his brother's reward money._

Charlie was tempted to charge through the glass exit doors of the building, screaming at the media that they were all uninformed idiots who were looking for the wrong man.

Instead, he strode through the back exit of the building on legs quivering with rage, his mind trying to filter the excess energy into a productive outlet. Jerking his car into gear, Charlie pressed down the gas pedal, lurching forward out of the parking lot and into the street, driving faster and faster down the road, his anger expelling itself through the pressure of his foot on metal, narrowly making several lights as he weaved in and out of traffic, until he had to slam on his breaks when a large truck blocked his path.

The burst of anger suddenly dying away and leaving him with a feeling of hopelessness, Charlie slumped in his seat. He looked forlornly out his window, waiting while the truck backed into a loading zone. His father- how would he react when he was given the news that the official policy of the bureau was that they were never going to find Don? If Charlie could just find some way to give his father a small slice, just a small sliver of hope- it would ease the weight of the Bureau's opinion.

Charlie noticed a small office on the corner across from his car. In large letters across the front window, it advertised itself as a missing-children's agency. The truck in front of him gone, Charlie spontaneously did a u-turn and turned into the agency's parking lot, nervously entering a side door and looking around.


	9. How We Looked For You

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or any of the characters therein. All characters in this story are fictional and should not be associated with any person- real or imagined.

Author's note: I had these written last week, but for some reason, they would not upload. That's why I have 2 chapters to post at once.

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Gary Malone sat at his desk, looking over the past month's financial report. As head of one of L.A.'s smallest not-for-profit missing children's agencies, he was concerned at the lack of recent donations. People's interest in searching for the missing was beginning to wan, as the media was constantly pointing out the unfathomable number of kids that disappeared each year and were never found. The general public had begun to think that funding the searches was a waste of energy and money. Hence, the number of private donations was decreasing, putting many of the smaller agencies out of business.

Malone hoped it did not happen to theirs.

As he started marking off the names of previous donors, his ears picked up the sound of the side door slowly opening. Looking over his reading glasses, he observed a young man with curly black hair standing just inside the entryway.

Parent- lost his child- Malone immediately thought, noting the lack of focus in the young man's face, the downward tilt of his head- as if he could not bear to see the world without his child in it, the sagging shoulders- as if the unfairness that comprised the world were crushing him, and the air of depression and hopelessness that circled him like an extended halo.

Quickly standing up, Malone crossed to the young man and greeted him, shaking his hand gently and guiding him to a seat in front of his desk. Sitting in his own chair, Malone took out a basic form from his top left drawer, readying his pen so he could start recording information.

"This will be a lot easier if I just start asking the questions. It'll help you keep your mind on the facts we'll need- and not on the reason why you're here."

Charlie nodded glumly, his eyes staring at his hands.

"Name of the missing?"

"Donald Adam Eppes."

"Date of disappearance?"

"Friday," Charlie named the date.

"Last place seen?"

He gave his brother's address.

"General description?"

Charlie hesitated.

"Hair color?"

"Black."

"Eyes?"

"Brown."

"Height?"

"Something over six feet- not really sure."

Malone paused at that- must be a missing teenager- thirteen years old maybe, based on what he guessed this man's age to be. Malone was always surprised at how quickly kids got tall nowadays.

"Age?"

"35."

"Weight?

"Wait" – Malone looked up at Charlie. "Did you say thirty-five?"

Charlie nodded his head in affirmation, tears wetting his cheeks- the first he had dared to shed since his brother's disappearance.

Malone grabbed some Kleenex from his desk, handing them to the desolate young man and waiting for him to continue with an explanation.

After wiping his face and blowing his nose, Charlie downloaded to Malone everything that had occurred over the past month- from Don's last phone call to the news that Megan had conveyed to him earlier that day. He told Malone that for the first time since the whole thing had begun, he felt that he was all alone.

Taking pity on Charlie, Malone talked to him, comforting him like he would a parent who had lost a child. In his heart, Malone believed that the young man was suffering much the same way, his closeness to and his love for his brother apparent in every word he spoke, and in every movement of his body.

Besides, it was in the older man's nature to help.

"So," he asked Charlie, "the F.B.I. has given up on your brother."

"Yes."

"Believe it or not- that doesn't matter," he stated knowledgably. "The only thing that matters is this- _have you given up_?"

Charlie thought about Malone's question. Had he given up? Did he really believe his brother had been murdered and buried in some unknown gravesite? He searched his mind, but whether or not it was logical was beyond the point. Charlie had to search his heart- and in there, he found the answer. He believed- no, knew- Don was alive, and he would find him.

Sitting up confidently, Charlie stated firmly- "No."

"Good," Malone smiled, "Now that we've established that, I can tell you how you can look for your brother- F.B.I. or no stinking F.B.I."

For the first time in a month, Charlie smiled.

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Alan Eppes sat on the couch in the living room, leaning against a corner pillow and holding a crossword in his left hand. There was a pencil in his right hand, but it had not moved all night. The elder man sat motionless, his eyes unfocused as he was lost in the misery of his thoughts. He tried not to- but he could not help picturing his eldest son lost, pleading for his father's help; maybe he was as close as a local warehouse, hidden in its basement, or maybe as far away as New York, captor of an international team of terrorists- it did not matter the scenario that his mind conjured up, for in each one of them his son was crying and hurt and bleeding and dying…

He had again spent the day driving aimlessly around the city. At one point, he had thought that a homeless man walking down an alley looked suspiciously like his son. So, parking illegally on a side street, he had hurried back to check. When he approached the man, he was sure he was looking at Don's face- but when he was within a few feet of him, it became apparent he did not look anything like his missing child. Fleeing the alley, he had found himself in a large group of pedestrians- and everyone he looked at, every face he saw, belonged to Don- a hundred Dons crowding around him.

Alan had run back to his car, ignoring the ticket that flapped under his wiper. He was not sure how he made it home- he just knew that he had gotten there, and somehow winded up on the couch, suffering the aftereffects of his earlier shock.

"Dad!"

Alan jumped out of his stupor, momentarily mistaking the sound of Charlie's voice for that of Don's. When he realized his mistake, his eyes welled up with tears- both because he had wanted it to be Don's, and because he was ashamed that he had been disappointed that it was Charlie's. He never wanted to feel disappointed to hear either of his sons.

Charlie entered the living room, his arms full of the papers, notebooks, and the computer case he was carrying.

Alan was surprised at the appearance of his son.

He seemed to be excited.

Sitting up from the couch, Alan tried not to hope- could they have found Don?

Charlie set his heavy load on the coffee table in front of Alan, a smile planted on his face.

"I've got a lot to talk to you about Dad- it's really important."

Alan leaned forward in anticipation.

For the first time since entering the room, Charlie noticed his Dad's demeanor. He realized he had given him a wrong impression, and wanted to correct it immediately.

"No," the words spilled quickly from his lips, "They haven't found Don- _yet_."

Leaning back into the couch, Alan began to traverse the nightmarish suppositions of his mind again.

"Dad!" Charlie demanded his father's attention. Alan looked up at his son, stunned at the forcefulness of his words. "This is important!"

"All right, Charlie- you have my full attention."

"Good."

Sitting on the edge of the coffee table, Charlie began to tell his father Malone's suggestions.

"He said we should approach the search like it was a campaign- instead of electing Don, the goal would be to find him. So, we would need a campaign office. And I already found one- there used to be this café across from Cal Sci- it closed down last month. It's not that big- but big enough. There's a main room, with plenty of room for desks and chairs and computers- oh, and phone lines; we'll need to remodel some, but not as much as you think, cause the place was just tables and chairs and a removable counter…"

Alan sat on the edge of the couch, waving his hands back and forth in front of Charlie-

"Whoa! Whoa! Slow down- what the hell are you talking about?"

Charlie tried to summarize everything into a single sentence.

Proudly he said, "We're forming a task force to find Don."

An unsettling feeling gnawed at Alan's stomach.

"Charlie- the F.B.I. already has a task force looking for your brother."

As much as he had dreaded having to talk to his father, Charlie found it was a lot easier than he had anticipated.

"No," he shook his head, "They dissolved it early this morning."

Alan felt as if a hot iron had been whipped into the center of his stomach. Trying hard to keep his emotions under control, his voice a harsh whisper as he asked-

"Why?"

Charlie sat down next to Alan, taking his father's left hand in between his own; gently massaging the elder man's knuckles, taking his time to word what he was about to say in the best possible terms. His eyes following the movement of his own fingers, Charlie carefully explained-

"An informant for Homeland Security says that Don was murdered- that we'll never find his body. The Bureau has decided to use his statement as an excuse to stop looking for him. Today, Tommy Larson disappeared- supposedly a victim of kidnapping. The L.A. Bureau is going to be busy looking for him- and too busy to do anything about Don. Though officially Megan, David, and Colby will still be researching his case, their work load is going to be too big for them to do anything really effective."

Alan's head fell between his shoulders, a short gasp of air efficiently expressing every pain he was experiencing at Charlie's words. He felt much the same as Charlie had earlier- his kind, loving, considerate, compassionate son; he was to be abandoned for some rich, spoiled playboy.

Letting go of Alan's hands, Charlie raised his own to softly clasp his father's face, lifting it level to his own, much as the elder man had done to his sons on other occasions. He locked eyes with Alan, trying to connect with the hopelessness he saw deepening into the dark wells that resided within.

Slowly, emphasizing each word, Charlie assured Alan-

"I- HAVE- NOT- GIVEN- UP."

Alan let Charlie's words be absorbed by his mind, body, and soul. Nodding his head between Charlie's hands, Alan indicated that he trusted his youngest son. Pulling away from Charlie, he composed himself, sitting up straight on the seat, forcing his depression aside long enough to ask Charlie-

"So, what's your plan?"

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"No, no, no- the phone lines need to be over there, where the connections are. And that desk, it goes next to the other one."

Alan was directing a small crew of workers. He wanted them to work efficiently and fast.

It had only taken a couple days to 'remodel' the little cafe across from the Cal Sci campus. Being a former city engineer, Alan had contacts within the government offices that quickly processed his building permit, allowing them to start work the day after Charlie signed a three-month lease with the store's landlord.

The place hadn't needed much work, anyway.

The store was a main square space with a unisex bathroom and a small kitchen in back. Alan had decided to leave the kitchen untouched, as it would be too expensive and time-consuming to convert it to useful space. Besides- he figured it would be beneficial to have a place for workers to make their lunch or dinner on the job. The main area had needed to be emptied of old furniture- including a deli-counter; then, it just needed a coat of paint and some electrical work. An electrician had set up connectors to allow for a bank of ten phone lines, as well as several lines for internet connection.

All that was left to finish they were doing at that moment- putting into place the new office furniture, phones, and computers.

Looking over the room, Alan was pleased at the final result.

To the left of the door, two desks sat next to each other. There were ten phones on the desk tops, with a row of five chairs behind them. The setup would allow five people to man two phones each; extra chairs were lined along the front wall, for visitors to sit on or to be used by workers in case the phone lines became busy.

Directly ahead of the door, there were three small desks with computers on top, and a pair of chairs sitting directly in front of each. This was the area in which statements could be taken down, and research conducted on the computers. Finally, to the right, there was a copy machine, then a fax machine sitting on a long work table. Here, posters could be drawn, fliers copied, and buttons made- anything that was necessary to advertise Don's disappearance and the reward money of $200,000 that Charlie was going to pay out of his own pocket.

Based on Malone's suggestions, Charlie had explained his plan to his father. They could rent the store space, set up a small office, and advertise for volunteer workers to be on their task force. As they were located right across the street from the Cal Sci campus, they had a pool of thousands of people that might offer to help the popular math professor; its location would also be convenient for student volunteers to help in between and after classes, and during weekends. After getting permission to advertise, Charlie had spoken to his colleagues- including his best friend Larry- about his plans, asking them to request volunteers from their departments. Before the first fliers had even been printed, they already had over twenty people who promised to start working the following Monday, as well as the group of seven that had showed up to help put the furniture and computers in.

Alan had contacted his business lawyer, who would file the papers identifying them as a limited not-for-profit group. It would be Alan's main job to get the place ready, and then to serve as office manager. In this capacity, Charlie figured his father's compulsion to look for Don could be put to good use; instead of roaming up and down streets, Alan could focus his energy on encouraging the workers to make and distribute the fliers, buttons, and posters needed in their search for Don.

On top of the small items they would have the volunteers make and distribute, Charlie planned to hire a dozen billboards that would splash his brother's face and the amount of the reward money across the Los Angeles freeway. He had already hired a computer expert to build a website with pertinent information and contact forms, with a monthly stipend promised if he kept the site updated. Last, Charlie was going to buy a couple thirty-second spots of advertisement on late night cable. These more expensive ads would have to wait, though, until he obtained a little more money.

Because that was going to be Charlie's role in the plan- he would supply the funds. The professor called his old contacts at the NSA and finagled himself three high-paying consulting jobs. While his father worked at 'campaign headquarters', Charlie would be working in the garage and in his office, in order to finish the consultant work, and obtain more funds for their task force. This was because Malone had warned Charlie- no matter how much money he had, if he was serious about finding his brother, it would never be enough. So, he set out to earn more, in anticipation that they might need it.

Alan was pleased at the college students who had volunteered to work on setting up shop. They were young, energetic, organized, and smart. Most importantly, they understood how to use the computers, as Alan was not computer literate himself. This combination of traits allowed the students to make suggestions that Alan would never have thought up- suggestions that would make his job easier and the task force run smoother.

Despite himself, Alan was finding himself with a half-smile on his lips. Surrounded by all that youth and optimism, for the first time since the original Bureau task force had been formed, he, too, believed they would find Donny.


	10. How She Became Your Mommy

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or any character therein. Any character mentioned in this story is fictional and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

Author's note: Long chapter, but I thought it needed the details to explain the bonding between Melinda and Don; hope I succeeded in describing it.

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Five weeks after having taken Don, Melinda was reviewing her subjugation of him.

First, the thumb sucking was going well. Knowing that it took as little as three weeks to form a habit, she was not surprised that he continued the practice even after she had stopped continually smacking him. Along with the physical reinforcer of Buddy, she contributed the formation of the habit to his having a previous oral fixation- she had noticed before she took him that he was a gum-chewer. The need to have something in his mouth to work his teeth, jaw, and tongue around was there before she had started his therapy; all Melinda had to do was transfer that need to the thumb sucking. Without any societal limitations present when he was alone in his bedroom, he had simply replaced the gum with his thumb. Melinda noticed that he would place it in his mouth whenever he appeared to be thinking, intently interested in something, anxious and scared, or at night, when he was asleep.

Second, he was readily accepting his punishment. After the first week of grabbing Don and executing his belting for being bad, Melinda found that she was wearing herself out from the exertion. With the little nutrition and lack of muscle control that he continued to have, he was still not able to give much of a fight; it was just that pulling and dragging a one-hundred-ninety pound man was not easy without expending a lot of energy. So, she decided to teach him come to her to make it less tiring.

Using the age-old trick of counting, whenever he needed to be punished, she would take Buddy, sit in the recliner, and tell him to get the belt, "come here', pull his pants down and lie across her lap. Then, she would slowly start counting from one. Whatever number she ended on when he came to her became the number of times she would belt him. The first few times had been the most difficult, because he did not correlate her counting to the lashings he would receive. But it only took those few times of being hit fifteen, sixteen times to teach him to grab the belt as fast as he could to keep the number to a minimum.

It became that just hearing the recitation of numbers was enough to make him anxious.

Third, Don had developed an attachment to Buddy that was stronger than Melinda had expected- but was understandable. She assumed he thought he was talking in his head, but she had overheard him several times talking to the toy. This did not surprise her, either, as she knew humans were social creatures and she had cut him off from all human contact- save herself and the toy. He had the simple but compelling need to talk to someone, anyone- and she had made only herself and the rabbit available.

He had also learned that taking Buddy away meant he would be punished. She smiled when she thought about how he hid the rabbit in his shirt to try avoiding punishment.

She'd pretend she couldn't find him, and then she would punish Don emotionally by removing her presence from him, refusing to enter his room. Melinda knew that the complete isolation was too much for Don to handle; she would wait patiently until Don could not take it anymore, and would tell her that the rabbit had suddenly returned from whatever mysterious place he had been hiding, the physical punishment causing far less pain than the feeling of absolute aloneness.

Don also used the rabbit to relieve nervous stress and fear. He had already had the habit of pulling his left ear when he experienced these stressors; Melinda noticed that, when he was anxious or scared, Don would now- along with his thumb sucking- pull on Buddy's ear more often than his own, resulting in the formation of a large bald spot on the bottom of the left ear of the rabbit.

Finally, Melinda thought about the third part of Don's training-the bottle feeding; it was not as successful as the first two. Though he drank the bottles _almost_ everyday without incidence, he was still reluctant in accepting them from Melinda, now and then continuing to refuse them until he had been punished. Occasionally, he would even resist her when she gave him his bath, or shaved him, or brushed his teeth, only obeying when he caught sight of the belt, or because she started to count.

And that was where Don's overall subjugation was not successful. For Melinda, it was not enough that Don do what she said because he was avoiding punishment. It wasn't enough that she had trained him to call her Mommy- because he did not say it like he meant it, only doing it to avoid her smacking him. Melinda wanted more. Her desire was for him to _want_ to depend on her, be grateful for all she did for him- really see her as his mommy. For that to occur, she knew he would need to be taught that he could not do without her help.

After reviewing how her plans had proceeded so far, she decided that the next day she would help him understand how much he needed her-

needed his mommy.

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_**Don did not know when he first started talking to Buddy. **_

He just knew he was doing it now.

Sitting on his bed, he was watching the DVD of a cartoon rabbit outsmarting the people chasing him.

"That's one smart rabbit, huh." he told Buddy in his mind, the rabbit sitting next to him.

The stuffed toy did not reply.

It wasn't that Don thought it was a real living thing; obviously, it did not move or breathe or talk.

It was just that Don was extremely lonely. He had been in his bedroom for more than a month, having no one to talk to but Mommy; and it was risky to talk to her.

If he said the wrong thing, she would still backhand him.

If he said no, she would still take Buddy and tell him to pull down his pants and belt him; if he took too long, she would pull them down herself and hit him as many times as she had to count while she waited for him to obey.

He had learned that it hurt less to just do what she said.

And that was what he had been doing.

He noticed, however, if Buddy stayed with him, she would not hit him; she always had to take him away first. Don imagined that maybe she was afraid of Buddy, and that the toy had the power and desire to protect him. In the logical part that was left of his mind he knew the toy could not possibly have this power or this feeling. But, gratitude resided in Don's heart for the comfort these beliefs gave him; he felt the need to offer protection in return- so he kept his only friend by his side, never letting him out of his sight. Neither he nor Melinda knew the truth- that he was projecting the feelings he had for his brother onto the toy, and that his protective nature of the lifeless creature was an extension of what he felt for a living human being, the memories of whom still lingered lost in his mind.

Sometimes, he would hide the rabbit, slipping him under his left arm within his shirt. If Mommy couldn't find him, she would not punish him; she would just wait until Don told her that the rabbit had appeared again. That often gave Don's previous wounds time to heal, so that the belt did not sting as much. Sometimes he thought maybe he should hide Buddy forever, but the loneliness would overcome him, as Mommy would refuse to feed him or talk to him, or even enter his room while Buddy was hidden, and then Don would have to take him out again, hold onto him for the contact that his mother refused him whenever he hid his friend. Besides, Don would never turn his back on a friend.

With no immediate knowledge of his family available to him, Don had sadly come to rely on the companionship of the rabbit, because besides Buddy and Mommy, Don believed he had no one else in the world.

It was really just too emotionally draining to have no one- even if the alternative was an angry Mommy or a non-responsive stuffed toy.

Melinda came in while Don watched the television. She told him it was time for him to go to bed. Obeying her, he went to the bathroom and then climbed under the covers. Melinda sat down next to him on the bed and tucked in his blankets.

Don scowled at her while she did this.

Ignoring his facial expression, Melinda asked Don-

"You don't like when Mommy tucks you in, do you?"

Not trusting her, Don waited a few minutes before deciding to answer-

"No, Mommy."

"You don't like when Mommy does anything for you, do you?"

This time, Don's answer came quickly-

"No, Mommy."

Shaking her head sadly, Melinda said-

"Well, little boys should let their mommies help them- but if you can be a big boy and do everything yourself, then I guess I better stop trying to take care of you."

With that, she kissed Don goodnight- his mind left behind to wonder what exactly she meant.

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Smells good, Don thought.

He took a deep breath, enjoying the aromas tickling the inside of his nose.

Opening his eyes, he was surprised to see a wooden tray set in front of him.

Sitting up in bed, Don placed his legs over the side of his bed, positioning them tentatively under the tray.

On the small wooden space was a round plate with a thin steak and two fried eggs. Placed on either side of the plate were a knife, fork, and a glass of water.

Don sat still, not knowing what he was supposed to do- waiting for Melinda to appear.

Right on cue, she did.

"Good morning, Donny- how are you feeling today?"

"Okay, Mommy."

Don sat looking at the food before him, waiting for Melinda's directions.

Melinda sat down in the recliner, smoothing her pants as she asked Don-

"How would you like to go outside today?"

Don lifted his head up, staring at Melinda.

Licking his lips, he greedily replied-

"Yes, Mommy."

Smiling, Melinda continued to play with the seam of her pants-

"Well, I know you think you're a big boy- I've decided that maybe you're right. I'm going to let you be a big boy from now on- would you like that?"

Don nodded his head gently, always careful of the headaches that could suddenly appear at the slightest provocation-

"Yes, Mommy!"

"Well, okay then"- Melinda agreed "You take care of yourself today- eat your breakfast, take a bath, shave, brush your teeth, and get dressed."

Going across to Don's bed, she leaned underneath and pulled out a pair of socks and tennis shoes.

Continuing her directions as she put them beside the bed, she told Don-

"I put a clock on your dresser. Be ready to go at 12:00- I'll be shopping till then. We can play baseball outside when I get back."

Don could not believe what he was hearing. All the struggling he had been doing was finally paying off; somehow, Mommy understood he didn't need to be treated like a little boy, and he could take care of himself. He did not know how, but despite the strength she had to make him do what she wanted, Don had defeated her.

He turned to tell Buddy, but noticed the rabbit was not sitting next to him.

Beginning to search his bed, he stopped when he heard Melinda ominously say as she went out his bedroom door-

"Don't worry- I took care of Buddy. Big boys don't need stuffed rabbits, now do they?"

With that, she shut and locked his door.

Don had a hollow feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with hunger. Mommy was right, of course, he was too big to play with stuffed toys.

But now he had no one to talk to, and he suddenly felt as if he was really the only person left in the world. Swallowing thickly, Don decided he would have to come up with a good reason to convince Mommy to give him Buddy back. He did not want to think that she had thrown him away someplace where he could not be retrieved. Suppressing the anxiety that threatened his insides, he decided to concentrate on eating breakfast.

This was not an easy task.

Trying to pick up the fork, Don found that though his fingers would close enough for him to grasp the thin spear of metal, he could not manipulate it toward the steak. He gave up, not even attempting to hold the knife, deciding to scoop up the steak with his closed fingers, and then balance it on the palm of his hand. This would have been successful, except he found his jaw continued to be limited in its strength; it took all his energy to tear into the meat, but then he had none left to chew the small portion of steak that had slipped into his mouth. Dropping it out of his mouth and off his hand back onto the plate, he tried to eat the eggs. These he could not pick up, as they were slippery with the grease they had been cooked in, sliding away from him and falling apart when he tried to pick them up.

Don became extremely tired from the exertion of trying to eat. Glancing at the time, he could not believe that over an hour had passed since he had first woken up. He had less than three hours before he had to be ready to go outside.

Abandoning breakfast, he climbed around the tray and went into the bathroom to take his bath. Pushing the water on with his palms, he waited for the water to fill. He figured he could try to eat again later, not wanting to miss the opportunity to leave his room.

After the tub was filled, he managed to slip out of his boxers and t-shirt. As he stepped over the side of the tub, he tried to balance himself by holding onto its side. He did not have the coordination or the holding ability to cling to the cold, slick porcelain; his feet skidded out from under him, and he fell into the tub, hitting his back and side hard as his head slid under the water.

Panicky, Don pushed against the end of the tub with his feet, and then managed to get his face above the water, his mouth gasping for breath. He tried to calm down, but the panic spread from the pain that dwelt where his body had impacted the tub. Don took big gulps of air to ease his anxiety, taking in as much bath water as he did oxygen. His stomach and chest began to hurt.

Finally under control of his emotions, Don pushed himself into a sitting position, leaning his back carefully against the back of the tub. He tried to grab the bar of soap and wash cloth. The soap flew out of his hands-out of his reach- so he just laid the wash cloth over his fingers and tried to clean himself. In the back of his mind, he was beginning to doubt himself- and beginning to miss the strong scrubbing hands of his mother. After his poor attempt at self-cleansing, Don reached for the shampoo but found he could not open the cap. Angry, he threw it across the bathroom.

Frustration was beginning to mount his self-confidence and take it for a ride.

Leaning over the side of the tub, Don managed to slide out onto the floor. He had not wanted to risk standing again, his fear of falling too great. Pulling himself up to sit on the toilet lid, he dried himself the best he could, and then discovered that he could not hold his toothbrush or open the cap of the toothpaste; nor could he hold the electric razor due to its vibrating action, dropping it each time it turned on.

He dropped it all into the sink.

Managing to pull on his boxers- but not his shirt- Don left the bathroom, tears of failure falling down his face.

When he got to his bed, he kicked over the tray of food, knocking its contents across the floor. Noting that it was already past 11:30 and he was not ready to go outside with Mommy, he laid down on his bed, purposely putting his thumb in his mouth.

Don was thoroughly depressed. He was dirty and hungry and tired. He hadn't been able to do anything- not one single thing. Now he wouldn't be able to go outside; and when Mommy came in and saw the mess he made, plus how he had failed so miserably at being a big boy, she would probably hit him till he died.

Don trembled at the thought of how badly it was going to hurt when she beat him.

But worst of all, now he was all alone. After Mommy saw how horrible he was, she would never listen to anything he said to get Buddy back.

Mommy's right-I am a bad little boy, Don cried to himself, hiding his head under a pillow.

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Melinda entered Don's room at twelve o'clock, finding exactly what she had expected to find: a defeated little boy.

She walked into the middle of the room and surveyed the results of Don's attempts at his assigned tasks. The steak and eggs were sitting in the middle of the carpet, yellow yolk seeping in and forming a small stain. She mentally noted she'd have to buy some cleaner to remove it later. Melinda had known that Don would never be able to eat the food- she had picked out a tough piece of steak and then proceeded to overcook it, knowing his jaws were not working well enough to chew the meat; she imagined that even the sharpest knife would have had a hard time cutting through it. As for the eggs- well, she was glad she had cooked them in a lot of lard, the greasiness it provided would have made it difficult to keep on a fork, whether alone someone's uncoordinated fingers. And, of course, she had picked out a fork and knife that was designed extra thin- making it impossible for Don to hold, so he had been _forced _to try to use his fingers.

Melinda went into the bathroom. She saw the toothbrush and razor sitting unused in the sink, as well as the towels abandoned on the floor beside the unopened shampoo. Looking into the tub, she noted there was no soap- he had obviously not been able to clean himself. She had known that, too, as his ability to control his muscles was not sufficient enough to grab a slippery bar soap- she had made sure not to buy bath gel- nor strong enough to scrub himself clean. Melinda was surprised he had even managed to get into the tub without killing himself, the damp towels the only indication that he had accomplished that feat.

Going back into the bedroom, she saw that Don was still wearing his underclothes from the day before. He had apparently not been able to pull his t-shirt on, his bare chest exposed. Melinda stood next to Don's bed; neither one of them could look at each other, as he had his face hidden under a pillow, hiding in embarrassment and shame from her.

Don heard Melinda walk around in his room and the bathroom. He waited for her to tell him to get his punishment, but was surprised to hear her leave and then return a few minutes later. But he was absolutely shocked when he felt her lift his left arm up and place something soft underneath, laying his arm gently on top of it.

He didn't want to believe it, but he ran his fingers along the left ear just in case- sure enough, the bald spot on the left ear told Don that he was holding his best friend.

Stroking Buddy, Don listened in confusion as Melinda continued to walk between his bedroom and bath. It sounded as if she was picking things up, the sound of an object being dragged from the room apparent one minute, then the sound of someone scrubbing, the scrape of a drawer being opened and closed. At one point, he detected water starting to run in the bathroom.

Before long, he heard her stop moving, aware that she was standing in front of his bed, even with his head. Don's breathing picked up, as he was not sure what Melinda was going to do.

Melinda bent down in front of Don's head, crouching before him. She had cleaned up his bathroom and the food on his bedroom floor. She had lain out fresh clothes on the recliner, taken the tray and dishes from the room, setting them in the kitchen. Now, she was prepared to take care of Don.

Lifting up the edge of the pillow, she turned her head sideways, peering underneath. She was confronted with two moist, doey eyes peeking out at her.

She smiled reassuringly-

"It's okay, baby, you don't have to hide from Mommy. I'm not mad."

Tears started to drip down Don's face as he pressed his eyes into the bed sheet, too ashamed to face her.

Rubbing Don's shoulder, her thumb playing along his collarbone, she assured-

"All little boys need their Mommy to take care of them. There's not a little boy in the whole world that doesn't have to depend on his Mommy."

Don cautiously looked back at Melinda, listening to her words and concentrating on the feel of her hand on his shoulder.

"Come on," she said, running her hand down to his, tugging at him sympathetically.

"Let Mommy take care of you- and then we can go outside to play baseball."

This gleaned a response from Don.

Reluctantly, he sat up, putting the pillow aside.

His eyes downcast, he told Melinda morosely-

"No good, Mommy."

Kneeling between Don's legs, she caressed his face with the tips of her fingers-

"You're a good boy, Donny- you just need your Mommy. Please let Mommy help you so we can go outside."

Don felt guilty. He studied his bedroom- the mess he had made with breakfast was gone; Mommy had to clean it up. His clothes were sitting on the recliner; Mommy had placed them there for him. The bathtub was probably full of hot fresh water and scented, soothing bubbles; Mommy had done that for him, too. She had even cared enough to keep Buddy; somehow, she knew how important he was to Don, even though she couldn't punish him when the rabbit was around.

Don began to think of the other things Mommy did for him. Like, how he didn't fall in the tub, because she held onto him until he sat all the way down; he remembered with remorse that sometimes she grunted when she did this, because he was probably too heavy for such a tiny woman to handle.

Then, how she would scrub his body, massaging his neck and lower back, easing them from the tension he had built up there, the result of his frequent headaches. He thought about how good it felt when she kneaded his skin when she dried his body; about how patiently she shaved him and brushed his teeth- it never hurt. He knew when bath time was over, he felt tingly and good all over, the baby powder silky on his skin; sometimes, she would even put his clothes in the drier right before he got dressed, the feeling of warm, fresh clothes incomparable- clothes he could put on only because she so tolerantly helped him pull up his jeans, and always she had to zip and button them on.

Glancing at the tennis shoes that sat beside his bed, Don realized she would have to put his shoes and socks on in order for him to go outside. Mommy could go outside whenever she wanted to; she didn't need _his_ help. Yet, she was still willing to do these things for him so that he might also enjoy being outside- and play ball.

And for the first time, Don realized why Mommy made him drink the bottles- he probably would have starved to death a long time ago, as he obviously could not chew solid food.

Yet, Don fought her so many times when she tried to do anything for him. No wonder she punished him- he _was _bad to want to resist her. She was his Mommy, and loved him- always wanting to take care of him when there was no one else to. When he did not do what she told him to do, she was just concerned that he might get hurt- like fall in the tub- or not be able to eat, or do special things- like play baseball.

She said she was teaching him when she spanked him, but he had never learned.

Like so many people in abusive relationships, Don was isolated and dependent upon his abuser. As he sat staring at her falsely compassionate eyes, he began to do what so many other people in similar situations do- and it was easier for him, as taking responsibility for the actions of others was already a part of his nature.

For Don decided to take responsibility for every horrible thing that Melinda had done to him- and anything she would do.

Smiling, Melinda helped Don to his feet and to the tub. When he was cleaned, shaved, and dressed, she began to put on his shoes. Before she could begin, she heard his voice whisper-

"Hungry, Mommy."

"Oh, baby! Mommy's so sorry. I forgot you didn't get to eat."

She quickly got three bottles. When she came back into the bedroom, she saw that Don was already lying on his bed. As she began to sit next to his head, he gestured to her to lie on the bed next to him. Happily, she did, placing her arms around Don as he drank from a bottle balanced on her breast.

_He finally knows I'm his Mommy_, she thought.

And she had proof.

Because, for the first time since she had brought her little boy home-

when she hugged him-

She could feel him hugging her back.


	11. How I Started a Chain Reaction

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or any character therein. Any character in this story is fictional, and should not be associated with any person- real or imagined.

Author's note: Larry is a complex character- but I just love him, as I'm sure everybody else does, too. I have tried to write diaglogue that might come from Larry- but please forgive me if it doesn't seem quite right. For me, at least, it is difficult putting words into his mouth.

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Charlie said a few last words into his cell phone, giving a small wave in greeting to Larry.

The physics professor sat on Charlie's desk, his legs underneath him as he perched on its edge, studying a white baseball in his hand as he waited for his friend to finish.

Saying goodbye, Charlie put his phone away and dropped himself into a chair in front of Larry.

"When does Amita get back from India?" Larry asked.

"She's not sure- depends on whether or not they start another project. Could be a week- could be a month- could be forever, the way she's talking."

Larry nodded.

"And how did the latest tips pan out?" he asked, feeling that he already knew the answer.

"Another failure- fourth one in the past two weeks."

"False positive for a sighting of Don?" Larry inquired, tossing the ball up and down in the air.

"Yes- false positive. Always false."

Charlie looked glumly at his friend.

"You know- we take in all this information- thousands of calls in the last month- and the facts never add up to an acceptable outcome."

Larry nodded, rubbing the stitches on the ball in his hand.

"I think your problem, Charles, is that too many people are trying to get that two-hundred grand you offered up on a silver platter; too many people who are offering faulty information- it is corrupting your research- or would it be more proper to say search?"

Waving his hand dismissively, Charlie agreed.

"I know, I know- but, I guess, if nothing else, it keeps Dad busy. You should have seen him a month ago- he was driving around town accosting homeless men. Now, at least, he spends his time writing reports and pasting fliers- no threat to the lower socio-economic class of people."

"Well, Charles, many times we start down a path with a single purpose, then we find that another one begins to drive us- yet, in either instance, we are still on the same path, marching toward the same goal."

"True- but keeping Dad busy has actually been one of the reasons for this task force from the get-go. The problem is- we've been going down this path for a while now, but don't seem to be getting any closer to that goal. Every day, we get phone call after phone call."

In a mocking tone, Charlie mimicked-

'Yeah, that F.B.I. guy- he's my neighbor- been hiding out next door for years.' Or 'Man- I swear I saw him at the movies- he was selling popcorn and wouldn't give me extra butter.' Or my favorite 'I think he's the girl across the street- any chance he had a sex change?'"

Larry was spinning the ball around on Charlie's desk.

"When you have a complicated research project, it is not unusual for a lot of unexpected data to filter in- it is the job of the researcher to discriminate which information applies to the project and which information does not. Maybe you need to dispel more of the false data."

Charlie rubbed his face in frustration.

"Of course, Larry- we don't go running off to check out every tip. Obviously, that would not be statistically possible anyway, considering there are only three people available to verify the validity of the data."

"Ah, Charles, you must be referring to Megan, David, and Colby. How are they able to check the leads you give them- I thought they were overloaded with work."

Smiling, Charlie replied-

"Because they're slick- real slick. They can't have other agents help on _Don's _case- but many of their colleagues continue to offer help. Well, to get around Donaldson's limitations- they simply ask the other agents to do the basic paper- or footwork on their _other_ cases. Thus, they have more time to spend on Don's case themselves."

"Splendid thinking on their part- I am impressed with their ability to move around such a formidable obstacle."

"Yeah- I'm grateful, too."

Twisting his body into various positions in the chair, he complained to Larry-

"But it seems so pointless. All the signs, the fliers, the billboards, the ads- we get all these calls and e-mails and people coming in to interview- but nothing seems to change. Don is still missing, and I'm beginning to wonder what the purpose is-we haven't made any more progress with all the work of the task force than we made without it."

"Are you old enough to remember "Hands Across America" Charles?"

Sighing, Charlie said-

"Maybe- but I don't really know what the hell you're talking about?"

"It was this nationwide effort to have people join hands- one person after the other in a single, solid line- from one end of the country to the other. This was the goal on the surface. But really, the purpose was to raise money and awareness of the starving people in Africa."

"And your point is- I should have a million people hold hands and pray that we find Don?"

"Not that that is a bad idea-exhibitions of faith often lead to astounding material results- but my point is that the solid line of people, the chain we may say, that goal- it was never met. There were too many places where people did not want to stand, and so there were gaps here and there across the country. However, the real purpose of raising money and awareness was still accomplished- so many people were affected by the attempt."

"Again, Larry- you are completely losing me here."

"My point, as you say, is that you are thinking along linear lines- and that is your fallacy. You suppose that someone is going to see a poster of Don, recognize him, and then come in with news of where he is - like counting, one, two, three. I am trying to suggest that you stop thinking that way. You do not need to have direct contact points between yourself and the final goal, all in a row. You may have touched one person already, the reacting result being that indirectly, not along a straight line from point a to b, he will touch someone else and so on; maybe breaks in the chain will occur along the way, but reactions will still occur between the necessary people, and ultimately, your goal of finding Don will be accomplished."

Charlie tried to summarize what Larry was saying in his own terms-

"You're saying that I might not know it, but the chain reaction that will lead to finding Don may have already started- beginning with my 'touching' the right person. And there is no way to follow its progress, because it may be jumping- seemingly randomly- from one person or event to another, with gaps in between. But it is still able to head towards and accomplish its goal."

"Well put, Charles."

A knock sounded on Charlie's open office door. Standing up, he greeted one of his students.

"Hey, Jimmy- I didn't expect to see you till two o'clock."

A shy, twenty year-old stood in Charlie's doorway. Short blond hair, skinny, with thick glasses and a crooked smile, Jimmy Nicholson was the quintessential geek.

Responding to his professor, Jimmy explained-

"Oh- our departure time is still the same. I just wanted to know if I could bring some fliers with me- you know, to post around town."

Charlie was touched by Jimmy's question. He had been the first one to join Don's task force; he had also been working every extra hour he could to help his professor in his search for his brother, and obviously did not plan on taking a break from his work, even though he was heading on a weeklong vacation to see his grandfather. The young man felt he owed a debt to Charlie.

Jimmy had been a student of his for two years. As a freshman, Jimmy had lost funding for his second year- so wrapped up in his studies, he had forgotten to file the final papers for a grant that was to pay most of his costs. Frantic, he had confessed his mistake to his math professor. He had cried, telling Charlie he was his Grandpa's only grandson- his mother and father had died long ago, both of them only-children. Grandpa had offered to mortgage his house and land to pay for Jimmy's college, as he was adamant that his grandson should go. Jimmy had refused, stating that he had received enough financial aide to cover his costs.

Only, he had screwed up and couldn't bear the thought that his grandfather would be risking his home because of his stupid mistake. If he couldn't get the money on his own, he would drop out of Cal Sci and go to community college.

Charlie had rescued Jimmy, using his prestige to contact the grant provider, asking them to give him an extension so he could file the proper papers. In return, Charlie had to promise to provide a few research services, which he easily rendered before the semester had ended.

In Jimmy's eyes, Dr. Charles Eppes was his hero, touching his life like no other- and there was nothing he wouldn't do for him.

"It's okay, Jimmy- don't worry about the fliers. You deserve a break from all the hard work you've been doing for the task force."

"I don't mind, Dr. Eppes- I really don't. Grandpa's house is stuck out in the boonies, so to speak, and it will give me an excuse to go into town whenever I get cabin fever."

Charlie laughed-

"Okay, fine- take as many as you want. It's out of our projected search area, but, what the heck- we've got plenty of fliers to spare."

When Jimmy had taken his leave, Larry asked-

"Are you taking a trip today?"

Sliding back into his chair, his head leaning on the back of the chair and his eyes closed, Charlie murmured-

"Yes- I'm taking Jimmy to his grandfather's house so he can visit this week. He's been working so hard on the task force- when I heard he needed a ride, I offered to take him as a small gesture of gratitude."

"It is wonderful that you can continue to think of others in your time of need."

"Well, Larry, when it hurts to think of the one you want- sometimes it's actually easier to think of others."

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Spring sucks, thought Bob Anderson, pulling another weed from his garden. The eighty-year old man was kneeling in the small garden next to his house. He had decided to spend his day tending to his property, as it was the first time in three days that it hadn't rained- and he loved to be outside.

Only, he hadn't expected so much work needed to be done. The storms of the last few days had flooded his garden, leaving small puddles in several spots, and drowning out many of his flowers. He had spent the good part of his morning in front of his house, picking up the limbs that the storms had so brutally whipped off the trunk of his favorite oak tree.

Standing up after pulling the last weed, he took in the rest of his property. He owned exactly two point nine acres of land, most of it wooded. In front, he had cleared a small yard years before, an old swing set still standing next to the oak, rusting as slowly as the old man himself. On either side of his house, there were lines of trees, most of them pine. He could not see his neighbor two acres away to the left of his house, as the trees were too thick. However, he could see pieces of his neighbor's house to the right- the bright yellow of the ranch standing out clearly between the browns and greens of the trees.

In between their property, an old wooden fence leaned perilously, half the slats rotted away. Bob saw that an entire section of the fence had fallen during the storm, the top of which was resting in the middle of a small stream that skirted his property. His back beginning to ach from the dampness, Bob headed to the fence, wanting to check if it warranted complete removal. Made no sense to let it completely fall into the stream- the weight of it might obstruct the water's path, and one really did not know how that might affect the land around it.

Reaching the fence, Bob pulled the fallen slats out of the stream, laying them next to the fence. He began to walk along it, checking to see how rotted it was as a whole. Over the fence, his neighbor's house sat, less than half an acre away. She had also cleared a yard out years before, from the front of the house to around back and nearly as far as the fence. Bob seemed to remember her having done this sometime in the late sixties or early seventies, a little after the time he and his wife had first moved in. He thought he remembered her being pregnant at some point, but did not remember having seen her with a child.

Shame her husband died of cancer, Bob thought, as he put his head around a large hole in the fence to check the condition of its other side.

He jumped back when his face met that of another's.

Laughing at himself, he recovered quickly, chiding his jittery bones. He looked back through the fence to see who the young man was that had also been startled by seeing an unexpected face.

He examined the man, who was staring straight at him, his body stiff and unmoving.

Bob thought about his appearance- looks to be in his thirties, he thought, has a lot of black hair. His eyes traveled down the man's body, taking in the rest of his appearance. He noted his casual dress- the t-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. He especially noticed the toy rabbit stuffed under the belt around his jeans, and the modified baseball glove that he wore on his left hand, Velcro straps across its opening clearly keeping it on his hand.

Staring back at the man, Bob thought to himself- he must be _special_.

Attempting his most charming smile, Bob gently said-

"Hello there, son."

He got no response.

"My name is Bob- friends call me Bobby. Want to be friends?"

The man shifted his weight from one foot to another, seeming to become anxious.

Oh, boy, thought Bob, I don't want to scare him. Wonder if he's related to Dr. Thompson, or if he's one of her patients.

Bob reached into his pocket, pulling out a piece of chewing gum. He had the habit of chewing a piece now and then, still having most of his teeth.

Offering the gum as a peace offering, Bob asked-

"What's your name, sweetie?"

The man approached him, tentatively reaching for the gum.

He heard him start to stutter his name-

"D-d-ddd"-

Bob was so intent on his new acquaintance that he did not see or hear Dr. Thompson come up along the fence.

"Exactly what do you think you are doing?"

Both he and the man jumped for the second time that day, Bob dropping the gum on the ground.

Turning to Dr. Thompson, he explained-

"I scared this young man, and I just wanted to let him know that I didn't mean to do it."

He met Dr. Thompson's gaze, keeping his eyes on hers. A cold spike struck his back as he saw something fly through and out past her eyes that he remembered from an experience from his past. Shuddering despite the warmth of the day, he turned to address the young man again, but was cut off by Dr. Thompson with finality.

"Please don't talk to my son- he becomes most anxious when around strangers."

Bob did not understand this, as the man had seemed okay once he pulled out a piece of gum. Glancing his way, he saw something new in the man's stance and the look on his face- that something was unadulterated fear. Bob was getting a sickening feeling in his stomach, one that he could not quite place his finger on. Odd, too, was the fact that he had been unaware that Thompson even had a grown son.

Picking up on this, she explained-

"My son has been in an institute all of his life. They just released him about two months ago. It is hard for him to be around other people, having been isolated for most of his life. You do understand, don't you?"

Looking at her smile, Bob was reminded of the proverbial cat that ate the canary- a jaguar, he thought, with that shining black hair of hers. He had not seen a smile like for over sixty years- he had hoped he would never see one again.

Protesting, Bob asked-

"But he seems to like me- why don't you let me throw the ball around with him for a while- I bet it'd do him good."

She gave an emphatic "no".

Bitch, Bob thought.

Rudely dismissing Bob, she commanded the man "Come on- we're going back to the house- _right now_."

Bob watched as Dr. Thompson pounded off to her house, her son walking dejectedly behind her. He was curious when her son suddenly rushed to catch up to her, appeared to talk to her, and then he came back towards Bob, the whole while Dr. Thompson keeping watch, standing with a glare on her face and her arms folded tightly across her chest.

When the man was within a couple feet of Bob, he bent down to retrieve a soft ball.

As he pulled himself up, their eyes met.

The old man was barely able to read the man's lips as he mouthed to Bob-

"Donny"-

before running away to meet an impatiently waiting Dr. Thompson.

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Charlie and Jimmy left Cal Sci a little after two o'clock in the afternoon. The traffic was light, so they traveled at a leisurely rate, discussing math, the college, and, of course, Don. The weather was nice and warm, though the air was still humid from the three previous days of rain. When they arrived at their destination, Jimmy directed Charlie to park on the side of the road in front of his Grandpa's house, the dirt driveway being so thick with mud he was afraid his professor's car would get stuck.

The old man was standing at the end of his yard, wanting to guide them around the piles of sticks, puddles, and mud that still comprised the front edge of his yard. While Jimmy went to his grandfather, Charlie waited politely, leaning against the side of his car with his back to traffic- allowing Jimmy and his Grandpa to hug and greet each other privately, the reunion touching his heart as he imagined it would be that way when they found Don.

He was shaken out of his reverie, though, when he heard a car coming down the road behind him, and was astounded to see the old man suddenly release his grandson and hold both his middle fingers up towards the passing car.

"Grandpa Bob!" Jimmy shouted, shocked at his grandfather's behavior.

Charlie walked up to the old man, who stood sullenly by Jimmy's side. Laughing, Charlie had to ask-

"What was that all about?"

The old man peered thoughtfully at both young men, then explained-

"Neither of you would understand. That was Dr. Thompson"-

"But Grandpa, you've lived next door to her for over twenty- no thirty years."

Nodding his head, Bob continued-

"Yes, yes- but I never really knew her. Well, maybe I thought I did- but today, I found out different."

Bob walked them to his front porch, where they could sit on some rockers.

"Today, I met her son- kid just got out of an institute. Seemed real sweet- I tried to talk to him, but she wouldn't let me."

Jimmy defended Dr. Thompson-

"But she would know what's best for him- maybe he needs to be left alone."

Bob shook his head-

"It wasn't that- it was just this look- I can't desribe it- she gave this look when I was talking to her. I've only seen it one other time- back in the Second World War. Before everything went to hell, I went to Germany as part of an emissary group from the State Department. I was just a kid, really, a new private in the Army, assigned to perform a few secretarial duties cause I could type. Met this Nazi there- you gotta understand, this was _before _they started with the gas chambers and all those other horrors you read about but find hard to believe. They were just another political group, yet- I met this high ranking officer. He was always smiling- but once, just this once, I saw this look pass over him- it was gone so fast if you had blinked you'd have missed it."

Bob paused, the memory clear in his mind.

"I saw that same look fly past Dr. Thompson's face- it was predatory- _and pure evil_. You can smile and be proper and purr all you want- but you can't hide the animal in your heart forever."

While Charlie and Jimmy thought over the old man's words, he added-

"And that kid- I can't help feeling sorry for him, being special and all, stuck in that house with that woman; you could tell that underneath it all, that kid was scared as hell."

Charlie stood to leave, sorry that the old man had been so aversely affected by his experience with his neighbor. As they all three walked back to his car, he suggested that the old man might call adult services- he could report any abuse he might see. Bob thanked Charlie, promising he would keep it in mind if he saw anything unsavory happening next door.

Upon reaching the car, Jimmy exclaimed "oh yeah", running around to the passenger side of the car and reaching in to grab a small closed box.

"Almost forgot your fliers," he explained to Charlie.

Saying goodbye, Charlie pulled out onto the road, his headlights piercing the blackness in front of him. Before he passed Dr. Thompson's house, he suddenly had the urge to slow his car down and take a look at the residence of the topic of his most recent conversation. As he moved at a snail's pace, he could see that the house was set well back from the road. Apparently, there was only one light on in the house, an eerie glow highlighting a figure standing in her front window.

Charlie supposed it was her son.

A curtain dropped down over the window, and Charlie could no longer see his vague outline.

Pressing on the gas pedal, he increased his speed, thinking about the gesture the old man had given Dr. Thompson that evening. Charlie supposed that, if he thought a person was abusing his or her child, he would not hesitate to offer them the same.

But if Charlie knew what Dr. Thompson had planned for his brother that night, he would have used his hands for much more than a gesture.

He would have used them to tighten his hold around her neck, so he could slowly strangle the life out of her.


	12. How She Sunk Her Claws in You

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or any character therein. Any character that appears in this story is fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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Melinda stood in the darkness of her kitchen, leaning on the counter.

She knew they would be coming soon- that much she was positive about.

That old bastard next door was sure to tell someone-and now, she was bound to lose her son.

Melinda had been anticipating that day from the first time she had decided to retrieve her son. When making her plans, she had taken into account the probable possibility that she could not hide her son from the world forever.

She had just hoped it would not come so early in their relationship. They had barely had any time together, and when they took him, it would be hard on both of them to be apart.

She had tried to help Donny be a good little boy and be quiet from the first time she let him out of his bedroom. Before he had been allowed to leave, she had put the black belt around him, pulling it tight, so the feel of it would continuously remind him of the consequences of disobeying her when outside the house.

She put it on him every single time after that.

And it had worked. Donny never did anything that would displease her- staying behind the house to play, never going near their neighbor, keeping the noise he made to a minimum, and only using the back door- mostly because the belt reminded him what would happen if he didn't.

Melinda knew the cause of her current dilemma was simple- she had become weak, not punishing her son every time she should have, so he had forgotten the sting of leather when he was free from the constraints of his bedroom, neutralizing the effectiveness of the feeling of the belt around his waist. This had led to the defiant behavior she had witnessed today.

But she couldn't help her weakness; since having taken on the role of child little over a month before, Donny had developed several techniques that he used to manipulate his mother. He knew just what tone and volume of whine would get him extra bottles, or longer time outside. When he wanted Melinda to hold him or massage his head or neck, he could give her the most endearing facial expression- his mother's heart melted when she looked into his doe-like eyes and saw the moistness building up at the corners. Most persuasive of all was when he disobeyed her and wanted to try to avoid punishment; he no longer hid Buddy, but instead he used his whole body to convey that he felt sorry, rejected, and scared as he held his head down, his shoulders slumping, his legs pulled up to his chest while he purposely made loud slurping noises on his thumb and let his eyes overfill with large, wet tears that would cover his face.

Even though she knew exactly what he was doing, Melinda could hardly resist- sometimes, she simply pretended that she had forgotten that he had been bad, forgoing the punishment altogether.

Chiding herself, she knew her former weakness was the reason for her approaching separation from her son.

Their separation could not be helped, now. It was too late.

There were _other things_ that could be helped, however- and she would have to take care of the main one tonight. This time, she would have to remain strong. Because, if she wanted to be able to see her son again, she had to be sure he did not talk; he could not tell them what she had done for him.

She did not know why, but those who would take him would not view her actions as those of a loving mother trying to reconnect with her son.

They might even think her actions were criminal.

To overcome these problems, she would have to help Donny learn to be quiet- to not talk to strangers- to avoid revealing their family secrets.

A mistake he had made that day, when he talked to Bob next door.

Leaving the kitchen, she moved through the dark house, ignoring the form of her son staring out the front window. She opened the door to her basement, flipping on the light, and steadily walking down the stairs. Once at the bottom, she walked to the far end of the room, approaching several small containers. Looking through the clear Plexiglas on top of each, she shook them one by one, checking for motion.

When she detected the first stirrings of life, she smiled.

Melinda was sure she could be strong again-

strong enough to teach her baby the virtues of silence.

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Don stared out the front window.

He was scared- more than he had been in a long time.

_Why was I so bad today_? he thought to himself.

The first and most important rule Mommy had taught him about going outside was:

_Don't talk to strangers_.

Yet, he had broken that rule the first opportunity he had.

Other than Mommy, the old man next door was the first person he had seen in over two months. When he had offered him some gum, he got a funny feeling, like they were old friends.

But, in their first discussion about strangers, Mommy had warned him that bad men did those things- offered candy to little boys so they could lure them away. Then, she had whispered frighteningly, they did horrible things to those little boys- so terrible she couldn't describe them without crying herself.

Don had been afraid to leave the house for two days after that talk, the lure of the sun and his glove and ball the only thing that had given him the courage to go outside again.

Otherwise, he would have been content to stay in his bedroom forever, safe from the bad men and their evil plans.

Don saw a car slowly pass the house, its driver hidden in the dark. He imagined a shadowy spirit controlled the car, and that it was reaching out to him. Stepping back from the window and letting the curtain fall, he turned away and headed to his bedroom.

He had been sure when he and Mommy had first come inside that she would punish him. So certain was he of that impending occurrence, he had already been taking off his belt when he entered the house. But Mommy had stopped him, telling him to take off his shoes and watch television. Troubled, he did what he was told. His mother's demeanor indicated that she was mad- the stiff way she walked, how she avoided looking at him- especially how she referred to him as Donny every time she spoke, never calling him 'baby' as she was wont to do.

So, he couldn't figure out why she hadn't spanked him- he hadn't cried and sucked his thumb, the only reason she had ever kept back his punishment; this failure to proceed in their established routine unsettled and frightened him.

Sitting on his bed, he waited for Mommy to help him undress. As she showed up at the usual 7:45, Don was slightly reassured when they started their nightly routine. Melinda helped him take off his pants, socks, and t-shirt; she then helped him put on a clean undershirt, brushed his teeth, and tucked him into bed. The whole while, though, she never looked him in the eyes- she seemed to be avoiding looking at any part of his face.

And when she kissed him, she said 'goodnight, Donny'- not using her customary affection 'baby'.

A knot twisted into place inside Don's stomach. After she shut off the lights and left his room, he lay awake for over an hour, trying to figure out how he had avoided punishment. When the answer didn't come, he fell into a deep sleep, exhausted from the emotional stressors of the day.

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It was a little after midnight when Melinda went to Don's bedroom door. She opened it a few inches, listening to the sound of him breathing; he was fast asleep.

Opening the door enough to squeeze by, she slipped in and, using the glow of the nightlight to see, she went over to Don's bathroom; carefully, quietly, she unscrewed the light bulb from the ceiling. Back in his bedroom, she did the same to the light fixture there, taking both bulbs into the kitchen.

Silently re-entering his bedroom, she carried an opened jar in one hand, a few soft rags in the other. On agile feet, she slinked next to Don's bed, not making a sound. Slowly, she pulled his blankets off of him; she had been careful earlier to loosely tuck them around him, in order to make this task easier. Putting her hand into the contents of the jar, Melinda scooped up a handful of peanut butter. Gently, she smeared the gooey food on Don's calves and the lower part of his thighs. Don moved a little in response, but was too deep into sleep to be aware of what she was doing. After a few minutes, Melinda wiped the peanut butter off of him, tenderly rubbing its scent into his exposed skin as she did so.

Cleaning her fingers, she took the jar and rags back into the kitchen, returning to Don's room a few minutes later.

She laid his blankets across him again, making sure they were loosely placed, grabbing Buddy from next to Don in the process. The last thing she did before she left was to pull his nightlight from the socket in the wall.

Melinda carried the nightlight and Buddy into the kitchen. She stood for ten minutes, hunched over the kitchen sink, willing herself to be strong, thinking of how painful it was going to be for her and Donny when they took him away; how much it would hurt if they never got to see each other again. Once she had settled her resolve, Melinda took a deep breath and stepped down into her basement, returning shortly with a large container held in her hands.

Walking as softly as she could, she noiselessly entered his room again, and deliberately shoved the container under his bed. Bending down, she unlocked the clasp that kept the front of the container closed, allowing the thin piece of plastic to fall open on the floor. Cautiously, Melinda used her unshod foot to give the container a muffled push; then she sped out of the room, inaudibly shutting and locking the door behind her.

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Don felt a tickle on his leg- an itching feeling that would not go away, irritating enough to pull him from the depths of sleep. Dreamily waking up, he felt the sensation of a light touch against several spots on his legs; moving his lower limbs back and forth on his sheet, he couldn't seem to shake the feeling.

_Ow_!- he said, as one of the light touches turned into a sharp prick.

He kicked out with his feet once, and then bolted up in bed when he felt the pain of tiny needles piercing the soft layer of skin between some of his toes and behind both of his knees. His head beginning a short ache, Don scrambled out of bed, heading instinctively to his bedroom door, his bare feet stepping on little cords that lay across the floor.

He tried to turn on the light- but got no response. Trying to exit, he found that his door was locked for the first time in over two weeks. Turning to face his room, leaning his back against the door, his eyes tried but could not adjust to see- it was pitch black, with no light filtering in from under his door. Two more pinpricks sent Don along the wall, his body practically falling through the opening of the bathroom door- but, the light would not come on in there, either.

Closing the door, Don sat down on the lid of the toilet.

He was scared.

Sucking his thumb, he reached to stroke Buddy, but realized he had forgotten him in his flight.

Shaky, Don went back to stand in front of the bathroom door. He couldn't leave him out there- not with... _whatever it was_ that had bit him.

He opened the bathroom door, flying in the direction of his bed, falling on it when he miscalculated the distance between it and the bathroom, running his hands all over the bed trying to find the rabbit.

Fur! His hand swept over fur- back a few inches, there he is!

Don reached to grab the patch of fur, assuming it was Buddy-

but realized too late that Buddy was much bigger-

and Buddy couldn't move-

and Buddy didn't have a long, thin tail-

and, most of all, Buddy would never sink sharp, little teeth into the soft flap of skin between his thumb and index finger.

Don yelped in pain, thrashing his hand back and forth to dislodge the creature from his hand. Trying to head back into the bathroom, he was thwarted by a sudden surge of creatures scurrying up his legs, sinking teeth and claws into his skin as they traveled. He batted them away with his hands, becoming disoriented as he spun around, the ache in his head increasing, not knowing from which direction they were coming; falling to his hands and knees, he crawled to his bedroom door, desperate to get away from the assault.

Scrambling up the bedroom door, he began pounding on it, yelling for Mommy to let him out, banging his body heavily against the unyielding wood as more creatures crunched into him, tearing his flesh in little pinpoints of pain all over his legs; Don began to cry, begging and pleading for his mother to open his door, save him from the monsters inside.

He didn't start to scream, though, until the first creature tried to crawl up under the edge of his boxers. Holding one hand protectively over his groin and another over his eyes, Don fell heavily to the floor in front of the door, curling into a fetal position as he felt claws scraping through his hair, teeth gnawing on his earlobes, his face pressed against the thin slot at its bottom, his high-pitched howling screeching through the unresponsive house as he slipped into a nightmare of pricks and tearing and teeth and fur and claws and hard tails and gashes and panic and fear and shock and horror and pain...

_So much pain_.

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Melinda sat in the darkness of her living room, rocking the ice cubes in her drink back and forth.

It was hard sitting there, listening to her child scream.

So many times over the past hour, she had wanted to get up and drag him from that room.

But she had to be strong- he needed her to teach him, and it would not do for her to be weak; otherwise, he would not learn- when they came for him, he would spill their secrets and she would lose him forever.

So, she sat with indifference to the sound of his screams, waiting patiently for them to die down; waiting till the perfect moment when she knew he would have learned what happens to bad little boys when they talked to strangers and told Mommy's secrets.

She sat another fifteen minutes, allowing Don's final wails to become muffled sobs behind the door.

Standing up, Melinda went to the kitchen and grabbed another container. Spooning it full of peanut butter, she went to Don's door and placed it to the side. Trying to swing his door inward, she was met with the resistance of his body huddled across the entrance. Kneeling down, she whispered through the small crack she had managed to make, putting a desperate note into her voice-

"It's Mommy, baby. Move over- I can't get to you."

It took ten minutes of coaxing to get Don to roll away from the door; he had been so deep into a state of shock that he had become non-responsive to most of his environment.

Once Melinda could squeeze her body and the container through the opening, she stepped inside, over Don's petrified form. He still had his eyes and groin covered, refusing to move his hands, tiny sobs escaping his throat. As most of the creatures continued to huddle around Don's lower legs, Melinda had only a few in her path- she kicked them aside as she stepped forward, placing the open container full of peanut butter in the center of the room. The smell was too strong for the hungry lab rats to resist- they clamored over each other to get to the tempting food.

Grasping Don from behind, she laced her arms under both of his, pulling him up from behind, grunting hard from the effort. Hearing her expression of hardship, Don finally responded, standing up and pressing his body against Melinda's, his hands still in place. Melinda led Don blindly from the room, pulling the door shut behind them, guiding him to a stool in the kitchen, where he perched precariously, still defending his eyes and groin, his body trembling and hot, his breath ragged as he found it difficult to breathe.

Melinda picked up the two light bulbs and the nightlight she had left there, snagging a large flashlight as well. Entering Don's bedroom once again, she used the flashlight's beam to find the light fixture in the center of the ceiling. Replacing it, she turned on the light to Don's bedroom, repeating the procedure in his bathroom, and returning his nightlight to its usual socket.

Looking around, Melinda noted that the room didn't show too many signs of turmoil. Don's blankets were half off his bed, but other than the container in the center of the room, a few rat droppings, and the blood in front of the exit door, nothing else seemed out of place.

Melinda went to the container; it seemed like all the rats were inside, nipping at the peanut butter and each other. She slammed the opening on them, closing the clasp, locking them inside. Looking through the clear lid at the top, she tried to count the number of furry bodies inside.

_Hmmmm_- she thought_- missing a couple_.

Using the flashlight as a club, she searched the room until she found the two wayward animals-

Bam! Bam!

Using the weight of the flashlight, she easily disposed of both creatures, picked up their limp bodies, and dropped them into the container to be eaten by their brethren. Walking through the house to her garage, she placed the container in the trunk of her car, next to the disassembled pieces of the ECT machine. Slamming the lid of the trunk shut, she went back in the house, to the medicine cabinet in her bathroom, gathering up antiseptic lotion, a damp wash clothe, and some bandages.

Melinda hadn't planned on keeping the rats. After finding they were useless in testing the ECT machine, she had left them in their containers in the basement, only remembering them a few days into Don's treatment. When she had looked at the creatures, she got a nagging feeling that she might need them some time in the future.

Thank goodness she had listened to that feeling; she supposed it was a mother's sixth sense.

Though she had fed the creatures, she was careful to keep their sustenance at a minimum. Like her son, she had known the animals would be more easily controlled if she kept them hungry. When Don had disobeyed her and talked to Bob that afternoon, she immediately remembered the lab rats, knowing she could utilize the creatures in terrorizing Don as part of her plan to teach him to be silent.

She had decided that the plan would be a safe one- Don was still generally healthy, and she felt that the rat bites and loss of blood from them would not be too damaging. Also, as the rats were bred for lab use, they were clean animals, carrying no disease- that was guaranteed by the supply company from which she had bought them. As for infection from the wounds- based on all the old scars she had seen on his body, she had been sure Don had had a tetanus shot sometime within the last ten years. The only variable that she could not completely control was how hungry each rat had become; she had not wanted them to actually eat Don-just bite and nip at him. From what she had seen of his body, that was mainly what they had done.

Returning to the kitchen, she approached her terrified son.

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Don could not move.

Every time he tried-

he would feel the fur and the claws and the teeth all over again.

So, he sat still, praying they would stay away and Mommy would come back.

He had been so glad when he had first heard her voice, scared she would never come.

But she had- and the fur and the claws and the teeth had all gone away.

Yet, she left him all alone- so he couldn't move- not till she returned.

Because he was still scared-

terrified-

horrified-

petrified-

of all that fur and claws and, especially-

_those awful piercing teeth_.

Don heard Mommy approach.

He lowered his arm tentatively, trying to talk, his words blurred as he continued to sob painfully hard, his chest heaving up and down, tears washing down his face-

"S-s-s-scared, M-m-m-ommmy."

"I know, baby." Melinda replied in a neutral tone of voice.

Turning on the sink, she washed Don's legs, making him stand so she could check all around him, perusing his upper and lower body for any signs of rat bites. They all seemed to be on his lower limbs, though a few popped up on his head, earlobe, and neck.

His legs were covered in ragged holes, some as small as a pin head, others as large as a dime, a dotted pattern drilled into his flesh.

All of them burned, making Don feel like he was on fire.

Melinda helped him sit back on the stool; she began to put antiseptic ointment on his wounds. Don's breathing seized each time the liquid touched an open wound; Melinda had deliberately used peroxide, increasing the overall pain to his already sizzling body.

Don began to cry convulsively, his face soaked with tears-

"M-mmmommy- T-t-t-t-eeeth."

"I know, baby."

Melinda treated the wounds on Don's aching head, which made it begin to pound-

"H-h-h-urts, M-mmmommy."

"I know, baby." Melinda said in a sad, sad tone, applying a bandage to Don's left ear, and shaking her head. "But I warned you-I told you that strangers do horrible things to little boys- to little boys who take their candy and talk to them."

The words she said sank into Don's heart and settled in. He was dismayed at the pain he had caused himself, the terrors of the night continuing to crawl along his spine, their claws grating into his bone and refusing to let him go.

"W-w-won't, M-mmommy." Don told Melinda, vowing he would never do it again-

"N-n-never."

"Promise, Donny," Melinda asked as she helped Don to his feet.

"P-p-promise, Mommy."

Satisfied, Melinda gave Don two pain pills, and then helped him to the couch. She still needed to clean up his room. After he sat down, she gave him Buddy- he squeezed him against his chest and sucked his thumb, curling up into a ball, rogue tears dotting his cheek now and then.

Going to the hallway closet, Melinda gathered the materials she would need to clean and disinfect Don's room. She finished within an hour, changing his bedding as the final step.

She went into the living room to get a still tearful and shaky Don. Pulling him to his feet, she put her arm around him and guided him to his bedroom. When he realized where they were headed, he tried to pull back, shaking his head back and forth 'no'.

"It's okay, baby," Melinda soothed, rubbing his arms and back, "Mommy got rid of all the little monsters."

Once she persuaded Don to enter the room- more than half-dragging him in- he refused to lie down on his bed until she went through all potential hiding places and showed him they were empty of any living creature; this included checking his bathroom, whose facilities he utilized before sliding into a much-searched bed with Buddy.

Melinda did not even attempt to shut off the light- she had known that Don would be too traumatized for that. However, she had not counted on having to sleep with him, which she did for the next five days, singing him lullabies and running her fingers through his hair to calm him down; because nightmares came regularly, every other night. By the third night, Melinda was turning off Don's bedroom light, finally slipping out from beside her sleeping son the fifth night. Still, she had to keep his door open, as the nightmares still came, and she wanted to quickly reach him the moment he first began to scream.


	13. How Bob Fought the Red Baron

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or any character therein. I also do not (of course) own the rights to Snoopy or any character associated with him- I just refer to him, but am overly cautious about copyrights. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any person- real or imagined.

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Jimmy looked with humor at his grandfather's garage. His 1979 Pontiac Bonneville sat in the middle of its concrete floor, parts falling out of its bottom while others lay untouched on a table flush with the far wall. There were at least five lawn mowers in various stages of disrepair scattered about, as well as a myriad of half-empty paint cans, ancient tools, unusable lamps, chipped dishes, broken coffee tables, mangled fishing rods, discarded brushes, wheel-less bicycles and tricycles hanging from hooks in the ceiling, and a tarp in the back, covering something with wheels. The small space looked like one abandoned junk yard.

A wrinkled hand firmly grasped Jimmy's shoulder, guiding him away from the melee.

"Don't say a word- not a word. Your grandmother tried to get me to clean that garage out for over twenty years."

As the two walked down Bob's driveway, the old man said with genuine affection-

"If that crotchety old woman couldn't get me to do it- nobody ever will."

Jimmy laughed.

The past week had been great. The young student had assumed he would get bored staying all week with his lack of outside contact- the old guy didn't even have cable or satellite- but he had been pleasantly surprised to find his time thoroughly occupied. As it turned out, he had forgotten that his grandfather was an excellent storyteller, and discovered he was quite sharp when it came to playing cards- especially poker, the young man thought ruefully, his wallet a shade lighter as a result of his miscalculating his grandfather's skills. Jimmy suspected if the clever old man had really wanted to, he could have thoroughly fleeced his only grandson.

A small Mustang was parked at the end of the driveway. Jimmy greeted his college roommate, Nate, introducing him to Bob.

"How was your week, Jimmy?" Nate enquired, helping Jimmy with his bags.

Smiling at his grandfather, he replied-

"Well, I took the old man for a few bucks in poker- but I think he's forgiven me."

Bob smiled genially in return, covering for his grandson.

"Yeah, the boy knows how to play- that's for sure."

Jimmy put his luggage in back of the Mustang, hugged his grandfather, and waved as Bob stood in the driveway watching the car fade away into the early morning haze.

Reminiscing about the past week, Bob worked his way back to the quiet of his house. He was always a little sad when the boy first left. Though he liked his solitude, when his grandson was around, he felt like his world was complete.

Bob looked at the breakfast dishes still in the sink; not having any other chores on his list, he ignored them and went to suck on a beer in the living room. Ruth would not have approved of his early morning drinking, but the old man thought at his age, what difference was it going to make anyway. He had already lived a complete and fulfilling life- every day he lived beyond the current moment was candy.

Placing his beer down and kicking his feet up on his lopsided coffee table, he pushed aside the quilted afghan and magazines scattered on the couch, knocking a small cardboard box to the ground and scattering papers along the floor. With a loud _Oof!_, Bob reached to pick up some of the mess he had made, not really worried about neatness, just wanting to keep the house in a livable state.

Leisurely sitting back into the couch cushions, he tossed the papers next to him, glancing at their photocopied topic-

Then sat up so fast his beer tipped over, a pool of golden liquid leaking unnoticed down the side of the coffee table, as Bob's complete attention was on the flier he now gripped in his hand.

_Hell, no- it's not possible-_

_But, then again-_

_No, no, I'm seeing a resemblance cause the old bag ticked me off-_

_Maybe, but it looks just like him._

_And the name- coincidence?- _

_They're both named Don- or Donny?_

Bob's first instinct was to call the police; but as he lifted the receiver to his ear, doubt assailed him. He felt for the young man he had seen next door- was still afraid that Dr. Thompson might be abusing him. He had been checking nonchalantly during Jimmy's visit, looking out his side window to see if Donny came outside to play ball again; Bob hadn't seen him all week. Not only that, the first few nights after his encounter with him, Dr. Thompson had suddenly and inexplicably kept all her lights on at night, the whole house glowing eerily. These things bothered Bob, though he didn't know why. If he reported her to the authorities now- told them she had kidnapped (?) an F.B.I. agent, and then was wrong- they would never believe him if he reported her for abuse; they would just look at him like he was some senile old man. Then Dr. Thompson would feel free to do whatever she wanted to her son- things that the old man felt in his heart would not be good, having classified the woman as predator.

Putting down the phone, he thought of his other options. He could call Professor Eppes, tell him that coincidentally he thought his brother was living with his neighbor next door. But Bob had told the man how evil he thought Dr. Thompson was- if Eppes believed what Bob had spoken about her, and that his brother was within her house, he might go off half-cocked and do something stupid- hurting himself and Thompson's son in the process.

No- there had to be another way to verify the identity of the man next door.

Jimmy had mentioned Professor Eppes' brother often came by the college, and he had met him on many occasions. His grandson said he was a nice man, and it was another reason why he worked so hard to look for him. Jimmy was his solution- he could call him once the boy reached Cal Sci and tell him he needed him to return. Only problem was, the boy didn't have transportation. And Bob didn't want to waste any time getting him back to his house to identify Donny- if he _was_ Professor Eppes' brother, they needed to get him out of that house as fast as hell.

Bob grabbed his car keys and headed out to the garage, various routes going through his mind as he tried to decide which one would get him to L.A. the quickest.

He was actually sitting in his car with the key in the ignition when it dawned on him that a car couldn't move if half its engine was missing.

Damn!

Slamming the car door shut, Bob went around to the front of his car. No way could he put this back together today- hell, never going to put it together. Sighing, he turned to go into the house when he sighted the black tarp at the back of his garage. He stuck his tongue out at the edge of his lips, thinking.

Bob went through his house to the back bedroom. It was more cluttered than the garage, piles of boxes lying about in a seemingly disorganized mess. But Bob knew what he was looking for- found it in less than thirty minutes- an old trunk painted drab olive green with the word 'army' painted across the top. Prying open its lid, the old man's eyes gleamed as he pulled out the plastic-wrapped items he needed.

Prepped and ready to go, Bob figured if he pushed his machine for all it was worth, he would reach his grandson by noon.

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"Hey, Jimmy- Snoopy's here to see you."

Jimmy looked up from the stack of interviews he had been flipping through. He was at the task force office, trying to help separate the most recent tips into two piles- "maybe in this life time" and "are they from Mars?" When his roommate had dropped him off an hour before, he immediately dove into work, feeling unnecessary guilt for having forgotten to post fliers in Alta Sierra while visiting his grandfather; worse, he had left the box of a thousand there, rendering them useless.

"What the heck are you talking about, Cheryl?"

The young coed smirked at Jimmy, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Come and see for yourself."

Rolling his shoulders to ease a few kinks, Jimmy followed Cheryl outside, assuming it was some kind of joke. He was used to that kind of treatment, so many girls refusing to take the shy, lanky youth seriously.

He was taken aback, however, the moment he exited the office door.

There, in front of the task force office, was Grandpa Bob- and what appeared to be the oldest motorcycle Jimmy had ever laid eyes on.

Bob smiled at his grandson. He was standing next to his classic 1942 World War II WLA Harley-Davidson- complete with side car. It was a thing of beauty, and the only pride and joy Bob had- other than Jimmy. Bought when he returned from Germany, he had stored it in a shed behind his house after his daughter was born, and until his wife had passed away. Several years before, he had been reintroduced to the machine when looking for spare lawn mower parts in the shed. Feeling a wave of nostalgia- and with extra cash on his hands- he had decided the old soldier deserved a better retirement than wasting away forgotten in an old shed. With over 90,000 WLAs having been produced during the war years, many of them were bought and maintained by returning servicemen- and, later, by motorcycle enthusiasts worldwide. Thus, it was not hard for Bob to find a mechanic to restore the machine to her previous splendor.

The machine was painted completely black- its thinly cushioned seat, thin handle bars, low-riding side car, tubular frame, and wheel spokes- even all the chrome. Bob liked to think it made it good for night patrols and raids. With a 23hp/4600rpm engine, the classic machine could run up to sixty-five miles per hour, its engine purring as only a Harley could.

The motorcycle, however, was not the spectacle that caught Jimmy's and Cheryl's eyes- it was the old man himself. Bob was dressed up in an old, black leather pilot's jacket- complete with badges of honor; his head was ensconced within a black World War II motorcycle helmet, with large goggles encircling his tiny eyes, his small, wrinkled face lost behind them. But what completed the outfit- and brought to mind the popular cartoon dog- was the long black scarf around his neck, its two long ends hanging behind him like large puppy-dog ears.

Jimmy suppressed a laugh, hiding his mouth behind his hand as he asked-

"Are youlooking for the Red Baron or what?"

Bob's face dropped to a frown, his chest thrusting out while he stood taller next to his baby.

"I'll have you know that women would fall all over themselves when I rode up on this beauty- including your grandmother, the looker that she was."

Not wanting to hurt his grandfather's feelings, Jimmy nodded his head seriously-

"They still come running," he said, lifting his chin toward a flustered and embarrassed Cheryl. Saying a polite goodbye, she turned and practically fled into the sanctity of the task force office.

Both men shared an amiable laugh before Jimmy realized his grandfather must have come with a purpose.

"Why are you here, Grandpa- I just left you a few hours ago- something wrong?"

Bob chewed his lower lip, then pulled a folded up piece of paper from the pocket of his jeans.

Handing it over to Jimmy, he stated firmly-

"That's why I'm here."

Jimmy opened the paper and was puzzled- it was one of the task force fliers. Raising his eyes to Bob, he said-

"You didn't have to bring these here- we have plenty; I could have picked them up another day."

"No, Jimmy- that's not it."

Taking a deep gulp of air, he blurted-

"That's Donny- Dr. Thompson's son. I'd swear to it."

It took a few minutes for his grandfather's words to swirl around his head before Jimmy was able to grasp their meaning.

"That's- that's, uh, well- no, it's- _impossible_!"

Shaking his head, Bob affirmed-

"No, it's not- _anything's_ possible."

Slowly pacing the sidewalk, Jimmy mimicked his grandfather's habit of chewing his lower lip while he thought-

"Then, we need to call the police, and- and, tell Professor Eppes, and- oh, we should"-

He was cut off sharply by his grandfather-

"No, Jimmy- I didn't ride all the way down here to do that; coulda done that from home."

Bob explained his concerns about Thompson's son if he somehow- but he doubted it- was making a mistake.

"You need to come back with me- take a look at the boy- identify him. Then we can call in the troops once we're positive."

"I don't know- I think we're treading risky ground here."

Jimmy's tongue slid out to the side of his mouth as an idea came to his head.

"Come on, Grandpa- I think I got a way we can verify that guy's identity without making the local cops think you're crazy."

Trusting his grandson as much as Jimmy had implicitly trusted what the old man had seen, Bob reached into the sidecar of his motorcycle, pulling out a matching set of goggles and helmet, offering them to Jimmy.

It was at this point that Jimmy realized the ancient machine was their only means of transportation. With nervous goose bumps rippling along his arms, he put on the riding equipment and managed to squeeze his long legs into the sidecar, ignoring the giggling face of Cheryl that he could see clearly through the task force window.

Bob just grinned-

"And away we go."

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Megan sat at her desk, trying to avoid talking to her new team leader.

It's wasn't that she didn't like the guy; well, actually she didn't.

It wasn't that she couldn't understand the reasoning behind the orders he issued; well, to be truthful, she couldn't.

It wasn't that he always seemed to be checking out her ass, or delegating her to inane tasks, or that he interrupted her behavioral analysis before she had finished giving it.

It really came down to one simple thing- Special Agent Jerry Atwater constantly clicked his teeth when he talked.

Working in the F.B.I., Megan had to train herself a long time before to handle male chauvinistic attitudes.

But the clicking- when he got to talking, she felt as if she were trapped inside a large clock, each flick of his tongue a reminder of every second she was forced to work with him-

and a reminder of how long she had been forced to work without Don.

Hearing the click-click-click of Atwater coming her way between the cubicles in the bullpen, and with her former boss on her mind, Megan grabbed one of Don's files, her purse and jacket, preparing to steer away from the walking irritation and catch up on some of the tips Charlie had sent her in the past week.

Keeping her head down so as to not make eye-contact with Atwater if he were nearby, she ran into David; he put his arms around her to steady them both.

"Sorry, David" Megan whispered, trying to rush by him to the elevator.

"Whoa- hold on Megan. Don't rush off just yet- Marie tells me there's someone waiting to see us out in the visitor's parking lot- something to do with Don."

Turning to grab David by the arm, Megan began dragging him to the elevator, whispering-

"Fine- let's go- but quick, quick- I can hear the sound of Atwater lurking around hear somewhere."

Understanding perfectly well what sound she was talking about, and being equally annoyed by it, David rushed ahead of Megan and began to pull her.

When the elevator car finally arrived on their floor, both agents jumped into it, just as a loud click sounded behind them.

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Both David and Megan were thinking of Snoopy; couldn't help themselves, as they peered curiously at the odd couple standing nervously beside an old motorcycle and side car.

They figured it had to be the goggles and helmet- the large round shapes giving the old man's head the appearance of being too large for his body, just how the cartoon beagle had been drawn. Or maybe it was the scarf- whatever it was, they couldn't shake the image from their minds.

"Special Agent David Sinclair and Special Agent Megan Reeves."

Licking his lips, the old man replied-

"I'm Bob Anderson and this is my grandson Jimmy."

"What can we do for you, Mr. Anderson?"

"Just call me Bob- really Bobby, that's what my friends call me."

"Okay, Bobby- you have some information about the whereabouts of Special F.B.I. Agent Donald Eppes?"

"Yes- he's living next door to me- has been, apparently, for two months."

Nodding his head, though not convinced, David asked-

"If he's been living there for two months, why haven't you come forward earlier?"

"Easy- didn't know he was missing. I only saw the flier this morning- Jimmy left it there by mistake. Just pure luck that I saw it at all- and that the boy happens to be next door to me."

Megan and David exchanged glances.

Bob didn't miss the exchange.

"I know what you're thinking- I'm some old geezer that don't know what he's talking about. Well, I'm some old geezer- no doubt about that- but I do know what I'm talking about."

"Bobby, where exactly do you live? I mean, why hasn't anyone else reported this?

"I live in a small city called Alta Sierra- few hours away northeast of L.A.-and there _is_ no one else to see the kid- I'm the only neighbor within a few acres of the house."

Again with the glances.

Megan spoke up-

"Other than his similarity in looks, can you tell me any other reason you think this man you saw might be Don Eppes?"

"Well, I don't know. He _said _his name was Donny."

Both Megan and David nodded-

"It's not much to go on..." she said, "We get a lot of tips like this that just don't pan out."

Frowning sourly, Bob tried to explain-

"I'm just asking you to _look_- don't you understand that I'm concerned about his well-being, no matter who he is. He hasn't been outside playing baseball since I first saw him last week- if nothing else, it'd make an old man feel better if you checked things out; cause I can guarantee you one thing, something's not right about the whole situation."

Bob noted that both agents' expressions had turned to stone and their postures had become ramrod straight.

Unknowingly to Bob, his mentioning baseball had charged a gut feeling in both of their stomachs.

With a solid, deep voice, David asked-

"Where exactly do you live again?"

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Megan was sitting in Bob's living room, trying to get comfortable on his old couch, the cushions lumpy and the seat hard. David was in the old man's kitchen, staring through binoculars at the yellow house next door, the afternoon sunlight glinting off its twin glass orbs. The agents had been switching positions every four hours since the two days previous, when they had first arrived at Bob's house. They had managed to park in the back yard next to an old shed, entering the house well before dark. Since then, it had been a waiting game, as they tried to catch sight of the mysterious man Bob had met next door. Only, as they had been forewarned, he never seemed to appear.

Bob and Jimmy were sitting at the dining room table half-heartedly playing poker. Though the young college student was patiently waiting for the agents to sight Don Eppes next door, the old codger was beginning to get annoyed.

"How the hell long do you plan to stare out that window?" he finally asked David.

Without turning, the agent replied-

"As long as it takes to see that guy."

"And what if it takes a week, or month, or year- huh, you think about that? F.B.I. planning on paying me rent?"

Bob didn't mean to be so ornery. He just wasn't used to standing around and doing nothing when a job needed doing. From fighting in World War II to working in an office job he hated (had to pay the bills) to taking care of the funeral arrangements for his daughter and son-in-law, and eventually his wife- Bob simply did whatever job came his way because he had been raised in a generation that revered the work ethic. Though he knew the agents considered standing around staring out a window _their job_, he couldn't help but think that there must be something else they could do to get at that boy.

Biting his tongue, David politely replied-

"We don't have any evidence that Don Eppes is in that house. Until we confirm his identity, we can not get a search warrant to enter the premises. So, as much as we _all_ hate having to stand around and just look out this window, it is the only option open to us."

_Hell_, Bob thought, _it's not the only option open to me_.

Slamming his cards on the table, Bob got up and went to the hall closet. He was putting on his coat when David and Jimmy came up behind him.

"Where do you think you're going?" David demanded.

"Where do you think?" Bob spat back, pulling his zipper up tight.

Jimmy stood in front of the door, blocking Bob's path, while David stood to one side of him, and Megan approached him from the other.

"Cool down, Grandpa- you can't possibly be thinking about going over there?" Jimmy asked him nervously, scared eyes turning to Megan and David for help.

The old man turned around, looking each of the younger people circling him in the eye- one by one.

"And why not?" he said, folding his arms across his chest, "That woman ain't ever gonna let her son come out, and you're gonna give up and leave. Me- I'm not willing to let that happen. I'm not restricted by search warrants and judges and courts."

Megan, David, and Jimmy all unconsciously stepped back from Bob, giving him leeway to exit; Jimmy because he knew once his grandfather decided to do something, there was no changing his mind- Megan and David, because they knew he was right, they couldn't stay there forever.

"So, what's your plan?" Megan asked.

"Well, I've been thinking- you kept joking about me looking for the Red Baron, like he's some made up person I should be gunning for; what you might not know is, he was real- a pilot during WWI- nobody could get near him and his flying machine, him always shooting you down if you even thought of getting close- sorta the way Dr. Thompson likes to fight. Well, the bravest way those fighter planes would attack was to come right at each other- face to face- to engage in the battle. Took a lot of nerve to fight that way."

Bob opened the door and stepped on his porch, eyeing Dr. Thompson's house across his land.

"You keep your binoculars on that front door," Bob directed, "I'll get Donny to come out- cause my plan is to engage in battle with Dr. Thompson the old-fashioned way- _head on_."

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Bob walked straight to Dr. Thompson's front door, ringing her bell several times before he got an answer.

"Why, Bob," she exclaimed sweetly when she opened her front door, no emotion showing on her face, "What a _pleasant _surprise. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Actually, there is," he replied, not stalling for any more time and being straightforward in his request, "I've haven't seen Donny outside all week, and I demand you let me see him- _right now_. I think you're doing something to him, and if you don't do what I say, I'm calling adult services to report you for abuse."

He then folded his arms and planted his feet, letting her know he wasn't leaving.

Dr. Thompson eyed him for a few minutes, her options obviously running through her head. At last, she smiled at Bob-

"Donny hasn't felt like playing outside- I bought him some new toys and he's been busy with them"-

Bob started to challenge her claim; he was stopped short when she continued-

"But of course, if you're concerned about my son's well-being, you are welcome to come in and see how safe and happy he is for yourself."

_Like hell I will_ Bob thought.

"I'm sorry Dr. Thompson- I don't want to intrude. If he could just come here a few moments so I could see him, I promise- I'll never bother you again."

"Well, as long as you promise to leave him alone after this"-

"I swear- I won't ask you about him again."

Relenting, Dr. Thompson went inside her home, appearing a few seconds later with her son in tow.

Bob's heart sank. Donny's head was tilted into his chest, his eyes down and half-closed, his arm wrapped tightly around his mother's.

Gently, Bob said to him-

"Hey, sweetie, remember your old friend Bobby?"

Donny didn't answer him- instead, he pressed his face into Dr. Thompson's arm.

_Well, this ain't gonna do us any good_ Bob thought.

Attempting another strategy, he addressed Thompson-

"Hey, that's not a black eye he has there, is it?"

Dr. Thompson glowered at Bob. She grabbed Donny's head under the chin, and wrenched it around for her neighbor to view his face.

Apparently satisfied, Bob said good-bye to Donny and promised Dr. Thompson she would have no more trouble from him.

He did not, of course, promise she would not have any trouble from anyone else at his home.

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Megan dropped her binoculars in the sink with surprise. David was frozen in position as he just stared and stared through his binoculars, seeing nothing, as Dr. Thompson and Don had already re-entered the house.

Finally turning to Megan, David smiled and gave her a spontaneous hug.

"Hard to believe one of these tips finally panned out," he grinned.

Quickly, their professional demeanor took over, as they planned what their next steps would be.

When Bob returned to the house, he and Jimmy entered the kitchen; they didn't have to ask- they both knew; it was apparent by the looks and actions on the faces of the agents.

The man living in Dr. Thompson's house had been positively identified as Special F.B.I. Agent Donald Adam Eppes.


	14. How They Prepared Without Us

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or any character therein. Any character appearing in this story is fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

Author's note: I have Colby quote Ren and Stimpy- do not own copyright to them, either.

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Melinda watched Bob walk all the way back to his house. After he entered his front door, she leaned forward, staring through her kitchen window, her eyes sweeping across his property; she saw the front bumper of the agents' standard-issued car peeking out from her neighbor's back yard.

Bob had visitors.

He never had visitors.

Except his grandson, who didn't own a car.

Well, they're finally here, she thought.

It was now clear to her why Bob had demanded to see her son; he had wanted the people at his home to be able to see his face in order to identify him.

She was not upset, having been expecting them from the first day the old man had talked to Donny; she was actually surprised that it had taken this long for them to show up.

Old man must be a little senile, she thought, or he would have recognized him sooner.

Then again, she hadn't seen any signs notifying people of Donny's disappearance when she visited the business section of Alta Sierra, the only place her neighbor would hitch a ride to whenever he needed supplies. And, he did not have satellite television- cable wasn't accessible in their remote location- so he would not have seen the ads that she had first noticed in between a few late night shows.

In any case, somehow Bob must have seen an ad or flier, and believed that her son was who they claimed him to be, bringing in law enforcement.

Melinda knew she would have to make preparations for when they finally came, figuring she had at least the rest of the night in which to do so; they would first have to get a search warrant, then gather a crew of law enforcement personnel- most likely F.B.I., as they would call it a kidnapping- and then develop a tactical plan- all in order to come and steal Donny from her. She knew she was located several hours from the L.A. Bureau office- the travel time to where she lived gave her that much more time to get ready for them.

Before walking out of the kitchen, she looked across to Bob's house once more; she caught the glint of light that worked off the binoculars that were being held by David, who had continued to observe Melinda's home…

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David, who had continued to observe Melinda's home after he and Megan had hugged, finally put down his binoculars.

"Don't think we're going to see him again."

Megan nodded in agreement.

"I'm going to call Colby- we need him to get our procedural paperwork started- I want it available by the time we're physically set to infiltrate that house."

She opened up her cell phone and hit Colby's number on speed dial.

"Granger."

"Hey, Colby- this is Megan"-

She stopped short, realizing that this was not the best way to inform Colby about finding Don. He had been working as hard as she and David to track down the tips; it might not do to tell him something so important over the phone, as his two colleagues had been able to lean on each other when the emotional relief hit. Colby would have no one from the team with whom he could share that first response. He might even resent not having been invited on their trip.

Regretting that she would have to do so, Megan knew she had no choice but to tell him this way: they needed him to get the search warrant for Dr. Thompson's house. The procedure would take time, so she needed to get it started as soon as possible. Any fallout that occurred between their team members would have to be dealt with later; she trusted Colby was professional enough- and selfless enough- to carry out the necessary work at his end, even if it meant delaying his arrival in the field.

"Look- are you alone?"

Colby took in Megan's conspiratorial tone, and, after an extended pause, answered in the affirmative.

"Sit down and keep what I am about to tell you to yourself."

Megan gave Colby a couple moments-

"We found Don."

She heard a loud suck of breath, then a slow release-

"Are you sure- it's really him?"

Before Megan could reply, his hushed voice over the phone-

"He's alive, right- otherwise… you wouldn't be _calling_ me with this news?"

"No- he's alive. Only, he's being held captive."

She could picture Colby thinking about this situation-

"What do you want me to do?"

Megan was glad that, despite the emotional turmoil he must be going through, Colby was able to focus on the task at hand.

"First, our location is a small town called Alta Sierra, approximately one hundred seventy miles northeast of Los Angeles-takes a little less than four hours to get here. The suspect's name is Melinda Thompson- that's with a p- she is presumably keeping Don under duress. We are going to the local police station; David and I are going to swear out a statement to that effect. We will fax it to you within the hour-it will be enough for a search warrant. Take the fax to U.S.D.A. Nadine Hodges- I don't care how you track her down- just do it. She knows Don- which means she'll work harder and faster to work the warrant through the proper paces."

"Okay- no problem. After we get the search warrant- can I bring it up personally?"

Megan smiled, as she had expected the request-

"Yes- but you'll have to wait to come up with the field teams."

"Good enough- that way I know I won't miss the action. What about Atwater- should I notify him? He is, unfortunately, our current leader."

Megan did not need to think about his question- she had already decided to contact Merrick and ask to keep the position of lead investigator. The first reason was because she wanted to personally be the one to arrest the woman who was holding Don, and the second reason was simply because Atwater might just screw things up; Megan had much more faith in David, Colby, and herself.

And in any other agent, for that matter.

"Don't say anything to him- I'm going ask Merrick to remain lead investigator. He can talk to Atwater about it."

"Doubt your request will be denied- our inspiring boss hasn't done any serious field work with us yet, and doesn't seem to want to any time soon; don't think he'll complain if Merrick officially assigns you."

"Which is good," Colby added, "Jerry-boy's clicking would probably give our positions away."

Though they couldn't see each other, Megan and Colby shared a smile.

"Last question, Megan- who's going to tell the Eppes?"

So wrapped up in planning the initial details of legally raiding the house next door, Megan had completely forgotten Don's family.

"I think- uh, maybe it would be better if we waited until we have Don in our custody. As a matter of fact, I am going to relay orders that this action is highly classified- only those who are directly involved in the field operation should be informed; Charlie has contacts in the Bureau- you know, a lot of people like him- and I don't want him finding out about this operation from a sympathetic agent. He and Alan might come up here on their own prerogative and try to get involved. We don't want civilian casualties if an altercation should ensue."

Megan could practically hear Colby working her words over in his mind-

"Fine- but you make sure to let them know it was a direct order from you. _I_ like Charlie and Alan- I don't want to do anything that would make them _not like me_."

"Don't worry-I'll take full responsibility for any decision that is made concerning Don from here on in. Just wait for my fax and be prepared to go- no matter what obstacles we face, we are going to rescue Don tomorrow."

Clicking her cell phone shut, then open again, Megan called Merrick on his private cell line- he had given it to her when she first became lead investigator on Don's case.

The assistant director's phone range twice before he picked up.

Megan explained the situation in a monotone voice, wanting to make sure he did not take her off the case citing emotional involvement.

Merrick was not adverse to allowing Don's team members to be part of the rescue operation, as they had been working the case from the beginning, so it only seemed right that they be there for the arrest. However, he did not want Megan acting alone, as he knew that her personal involvement in the case might cause her to make rash decisions- despite her attempt to sound detached on the phone-so he insisted on her incorporating a safety net by including an associate group.

"Reeves, you can be agent in charge of the operation, but you'll have to call in a S.W.A.T. team and adhere to their recommendations. You will be the one directing the operation, but your decisions must be based upon their plan of approach. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir." Merrick was assigning Megan the job of giving the orders; but he was bringing in the F.B.I.'s Special Weapons and Tactics team to determine what those orders would be. As agent in charge, however, Megan would be able to assign team roles- so she could be lead when entering Thompson's premises, and David and Colby could be her direct backup. This would allow them the opportunity to be the first ones to Don.

Thanking him, Megan shut her phone and told David what Merrick had said, adding-

"We better get to the police station. Once we send that fax to Colby, we need to start coordinating our efforts with the local and county police, as well as with S.W.A.T."

The agents thanked Bob and Jimmy, getting promises from both men to keep their knowledge of Don to themselves, and warning them to stay away from Dr. Thompson- they would send someone to keep surveillance on her property soon, and the troops necessary for Don's rescue would arrive the next day. Jimmy promised to keep his grandfather under lock and key, the old man making faces and rolling his eyes behind his grandson's back.

Twenty minutes later, Megan and David walked into the Alta Sierra police station, flashing their badges and gaining access to the tiny office of the chief of police.

"How can I help you," he asked the federal agents pleasantly, surprised at their presence in his small town.

"I need access to your fax machine..."

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"I need access to your fax machine, Granger."

Colby stood up straight, military-style, his face carved stone as he stared the other agent down, explaining-

"I'm waiting for an important fax- you'll have to use someone else's."

"It'll only take a minute- and there isn't someone else's to use. They're doing some kind of re-wiring throughout most of this floor- I'd have to go to another floor to find another machine. Just move aside, and I'll be done real quick."

Noticing the agent was holding a package of papers- at least twenty pages- Colby refused to move, crossing his arms and telling the agent-

"Then, go to another floor. You-are-not-using-my-machine."

Infuriated, the agent brushed past Colby- but the ex-military officer stood his ground, the push of the agent's shoulder against him no more than the feeling of a fly on his arm.

Sitting back down, Colby thought about the news he had received from Megan earlier.

He was disappointed he had not been with his partners when they had found their team leader- _former team leader_, he thought sadly- but was glad that he could play a vital role in his recovery. Having been taught well by his previous boss, Colby knew the importance of obtaining the proper paperwork in executing any field operation. This had been a hard lesson for him to learn- and one, he had to admit, that on occasion he continued to conveniently forget.

He just had difficulty in asking for permission in every decision he made, something he did not always have to do when he had served in Afghanistan. It wasn't that the military did not have its own rules and codes- had plenty; but when you were stuck out in the middle of a sand dune with bullets whizzing over your head and with no contact from your superiors, you tended to make up the rules as you went along- do what you had to in order for you and your buddies to stay alive. Or die with dignity- because the one rule you never broke, or ignored, or conveniently forgot- was the code of honor.

With the Bureau it was different, because what they were trying to keep alive was not just each other or potential victims; they were also serving as the life support system for the prosecutor's case. The 'keeping each other alive' part made it easy to maneuver in the field without needing directions for every step an agent took; but the 'judicial system' part made it difficult in deciding to walk at all.

When Megan had called and Colby had first heard the tone of her voice, he had decided to find a place where he could sit in complete privacy; he had made an obvious choice, sitting in a bathroom stall. Afterwards, he had stepped out into the hall and gone to his desk, where he was currently sitting while he stared at the fax machine as if doing so would make it start to print.

"Hey, Colby" came from behind the agent, making him start in his seat.

_I am not going to turn around, because this has got to be the worst timing in the world of bad timings._

Despite what he was thinking, Colby did indeed turn around- to face Charlie Eppes, who was staring at him.

"Did you eat something bad for lunch," he asked the flustered agent with concern, "because you're looking a little pale?"

Colby willed his saliva glands to start working, his mouth dry and hard to move.

"No- yes, no- maybe, I'm not really feeling that well at this moment. Was thinking of going home- you need something, Charlie?"

"No, no- I don't want to bother you. I just brought over a few more tips- some of them even seem remotely feasible."

_Don't bother- don't worry- feasible doesn't concern us anymore- actual does, as in we actually know where Don is_.

Colby let these thoughts slide around inside his head but not out through his mouth, as he was mindful of his orders from Megan.

"Good, Charlie- and it is _never_ a bother. I'll put them in with my current file on Don." He did not add that he would be acting on the tips, as he wanted to keep any lying he did to Charlie down to a minimum. "Well, I guess I better be…"

Colby was half-standing, as if preparing to leave, when he slowly reversed his direction, sitting down sullenly into his chair when he saw Charlie unexpectedly grab a seat across from him and also sit down- presumably to talk.

Presumably to talk about Don.

_Oh, happy,happy, joy,joy._

"I really appreciate everything you guys have done to try to find Don," Charlie said, his mind somewhere else, oblivious to Colby's discomfort. "All the tips you've followed up, the evidence you have gone over- again and again." The young professor shifted in his chair, his whole body suddenly sagging, his eyes downcast as he tried to express what he was feeling. "I just, you know- it's awful, I know I shouldn't feel this way, or-or, even let the thoughts cross my mind; it's just, that it's been- you know, over two months now…"

Sliding his eyes up to meet Colby's, Charlie misinterpreted the uneasiness he saw in the other's eyes and the sadness on his face.

Quickly, he apologized-

"I'm sorry Colby- I don't mean to lay a guilt trip on you- or lay anything on you at all. It's just- I can't talk to Dad about the way I feel- he would probably freak. And, Megan- she tends to analyze me; as for David- Don and he are just alike, all serious and concerned, talking to me like a kid. Larry's great, but sometimes- I don't want to make it too complicated or deep. I really just need to say it out loud- get it out into the open, without anyone judging or lecturing me. I just want a simple answer, and you tend to be pretty straightforward"-

"After all this time, do you truly believe there is a chance of finding Don?"

Colby sat with his ears at attention, listening sensitively to every word Charlie was saying to him, but knowing the underlying, unspoken question was what needed answered most: Charlie was not asking Colby do _you _believe, but was actually asking himself- do _I_ still believe? And Colby was positive that answer would become critical to Charlie over the next twenty-four hours, because he would never forgive himself for having doubts so close to the time that Don was actually found.

Reflecting on what Charlie had said, Colby tried to reassure him-

"What I think is not what matters-the most important question has always been- do _you_ still believe that Don will be found? Because this entire investigation has been driven by _your_ total and complete faith that your brother is still out there. And I still see that faith in you- even with every little word you say- like, when you just compared David and Don, you said they 'are just alike'. Well, if my F.B.I. training has taught me one thing, it is this: as long as you are using the present tense when referring to a missing loved one- in your heart and mind, you continue to think of them as being alive and accessible."

Patting Charlie on the shoulder, Colby reaffirmed-

"It's when you start referring to them in the past that indicates you've given up- and in all these weeks, you've never done that when talking about Don- not even once. It's that unshakeable faith that you have that is going to bring your brother home to you."

Colby waited for Charlie to decide if what he said made sense.

_Hell_- I'm_ not sure if I made any sense._

A slow smile trickled up Charlie's face as he straightened in his seat.

"You know, I was beginning to doubt if I still believed, but you've convinced me- no matter how little progress we're making, I _do believe_ we're going to find Don; I don't know-it hasjust been so exhausting and stressful- I guess I wanted to _make_ myself lose faith- maybe I thought it would be so much easier to give up than to spend my life continually searching."

Standing to leave, Charlie announced forcefully-

"But you're right- I haven't lost my faith- and, even if it is harder to keep living this way, I'm not going to stop- not today, not tomorrow, not ever."

The fax machine on Colby's desk started to print thirty seconds after he shook hands good bye with a rejuvenated Charlie...

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A rejuvenated Charlie walked up the front stairs to his home just as the night stars began dominating the sky, shooing away the last remnants of the sun. He greeted his father, who sat on the front porch moving back and forth in one of two rocking chairs. Sitting in the other, Charlie smiled at his father.

Alan smiled back-

"You seem to be in the best mood I've seen you since…" Alan looked away, "Well, it's just good to see you smile, that's all."

Both men sat silently, enjoying the company of the other, till Charlie gently blew away the silence-

"I went to the Bureau earlier," he whispered, the words barely more than fluttering thoughts, "Colby made me feel like the keeper of the faith."

Alan turned to his son-

"You are Charlie- you don't give yourself enough credit. You're too used to Don taking charge and saving us; well, this time, you saved us"-

Alan leaned across the arm of his chair, leaned in toward his son-

"and I know, because of all that you've done, Don will be saved, too."

Charlie did not respond, just let the warmth of his father's words enshroud him.

They continued their silent companionship, the creaking of the chairs matching the duo rhythms of their hearts, until the air shifted and a cool breeze began to blow-

"I'm going inside- it's suddenly chilly out here," Charlie stated, shuddering as he leapt out of his chair.

When he tried to go around Alan, his father caught him by the arm.

"Stay with me, Charlie- the fresh breeze is a good omen- it means there's change in the air. And we've been praying for that change over the last two months…"

Charlie sat back down in his rocker, feeling the cool breeze excite his nerves so that goose bumps appeared, tinged with anticipation…

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Goose bumps appeared, tinged with anticipation, on the arms of Megan, David, and Colby. It was late in the afternoon the day after Don had been identified. They were waiting behind the darkened windows of a black van, two blocks from Dr. Thompson's home, waiting for the S.W.A.T. team leader to crackle in Megan's ear the go-ahead for her to begin directing their field operation. Their goal: rescue Federal Special Agent Don Eppes and arrest Dr. Melinda Thompson on charges of kidnapping a federal officer of the government of the United States.

There were four other black vans parked along the road, as well as an ambulance, and an unmarked car containing U.S. Assistant District Attorney Nadine Hodges; she had insisted on being present so that she could verify all prosecutorial procedural safeguards were in place.

Six blocks behind the caravan, county police blocked the road; another six blocks past their target home, local police blocked entrance. A command post was set up in a neighbor's police-vacated home- Bob's proximity to Thompson's home negated using his, much to his disappointment- where the S.W.A.T. commander was going over the surveillance pictures that had been taken early that morning; they were sent to him through his computer. Looking at the screen, he spoke to Megan through a mike at his mouth; she was looking at the same pictures on a computer in the van.

"The two surveillance teams we sent in have not observed any apparent booby traps- or any other surprises -within the perimeter of Thompson's property. Once we have an all-clear, you can make your approach."

Megan replied with an 'affirmative', while the tension in her shoulders and back started to stiffen her joints; she rolled her shoulders, trying to ease up.

"Okay- I think we're pretty well set. We have two heat signals- comparing their locations to the house plans, it appears we have one person in the living room and one in a bedroom- should be the first room back. Is there any last thing you need to tell the troops, Agent Reeves?"

Turning the switch on her mike so that all personnel could hear her, she lectured-

"We are about to get the go ahead from our S.W.A.T. commander. Final orders: we do not want Agent Eppes to get hurt. From what we saw earlier yesterday, he is alive and healthy; I'd like him to remain in that condition. We have not developed a complete profile on Dr. Thompson as of yet- so, as usual, be on your guard. Also, be careful of Agent Eppes- he has been observed roaming free on the subject's property, yet has not contacted family, friends or police. So, we may be dealing with a case of Stockholm syndrome- he may have developed a feeling of loyalty to Thompson- which means, he may decide to defend her. We do not know if he still has his gun nor do we know if he would use it in protecting her. Be cautious of both Thompson _and_ Agent Eppes- but do not use force unless absolutely necessary."

The L.A. office had done some background on Dr. Thompson, but Megan had not had time to thoroughly read the information, as it had taken almost every minute of the last twenty-four hours to get the search warrant and the teams to their location. From what Bob had told her about the fear- _terror_- he had seen on Don's face, she did not want to leave him in that house- one more day, hour, minute or second- longer than necessary. What was important about Thompson- that she had no history of violence, and no weapons registered in her name- had determined the S.W.A.T. commander's decisions in their approach to Thompson's home.

Megan would properly profile Thompson once Don was safely returned to his family- the latter had to be her priority.

Switching to talk to the command post one-on-one again, Megan informed them that she was done.

"Okay- we have an all-clear from our surveillance teams. You have permission to go."

Megan again switched her mike to address the team members, telling them to check their gear once last time.

Double-checking her own gear, Megan ordered her troops-

"Let's go."


	15. How They Took You From Her

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. Any character in this story is fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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Five black vans slammed their brakes and curled to the side with a jarring halt, encircling the home of Dr. Melinda Thompson.

Three vehicles in front, two in back- a cascade of agents flowing out, forming an encampment around her front and back doors, a scattering of black-clad men sliding down the sides of her home to peer in non-barricaded windows.

"Got a sighting- a lone woman sitting on a couch in the living room."

"Any view of Eppes?

"Negative."

"If Thompson is in the living room, he is probably the body in the bedroom. No windows."

"Okay- let's hit the front door and"-

"Wait- Thompson's on the move."

"Location- now!"

"Appears to be heading toward the front door- be ready!"

The entry team moved aside, carrying their battering ram with them. Megan stood to the left side of the front door with her weapon drawn, David and Colby on the other side. A team of S.W.A.T. agents had spread out behind the vans in front, their sniper rifles poised and aimed, as the front door slowly swung open, revealing the amused smile of Dr. Thompson-

"I do have a doorbell, you know."

Megan blinked twice in succession, her body giving a harsh jerk in surprise.

_This woman is something else._

Recovering quickly, Megan pointed her gun directly at Thompson's head-

"Put your hands on your head and turn around- NOW!"

Thompson did as she was told, making sure her body spoke the language of meekness and subordination.

Putting her weapon back in its holster, Megan spoke into her mike- "Hold off on entrance" - and pulled her handcuffs out, drew Thompson's hands down one by one, and locked them behind the psychiatrist's back.

"Dr. Melinda Thompson, you are under arrest for the kidnapping and confinement of Special Agent Donald Adam Eppes, an officer of the government of the United States, as pertains to Title 18 of the U.S. Code."

Megan read the psychiatrist her Miranda Rights, handed her over to an officer ready at her side, and began to enter the house with her partners right behind her, tilting her head to speak into her mike the orders to begin entry again.

That's when Thompson began to rapidly speak, shouting across to Megan, refusing to be lead away-

"You'll scare him- he's not used to strangers."

Megan hesitated.

"Donny's in his bedroom- I left his door unlocked. He's all prepared and ready to go, except- if you all go barging in like that, he'll become anxious and upset. Please- you don't want to frighten him?"

"Reeves," the S.W.A.T. commander was talking in her ear, "You've stopped the operation- what's going on?"

In less than thirty seconds, Megan ran every aspect of the situation through her mind and came to a decision-

"Continue entry; but do not- I repeat- do not access bedroom with Eppes. Point team will take the lead on that."

Megan, David, and Colby entered the home as Thompson was taken to the nearest waiting van. Simultaneously, the back door of the home flew open and agents scurried over the house, shouting "All Clear!" as they went from room to room, and into the basement and garage, avoiding the first bedroom off the living room.

"Except for that designated bedroom- we have an all-clear on the house."

"Okay- we're going to see about Eppes. Bring the ambulance out front- have it ready to go."

Putting away their weapons, Don's team members approached his bedroom door. Melinda had not lied- when Megan tried the knob, it turned without resistance in her hand. Mindful of Thompson's warning- and Bob's previous observation of Don's fear- she entered slowly and quietly, peering around the edge of the door, taking in the setup of the room, looking for Don.

She could not help but gasp, her hand flying to cover her mouth so as not to make any other sudden noises.

_What the hell?_

Pushing the door all the way open, she tried to understand- _is this the room he's been staying in?_

She noted the cartoon characters on the twin bed; she walked softly to the dresser, looked at the dvds- children's movies. Scanning the room in a circle, she noted the toy box and recliner- painted blue for a boy, she thought. She walked over to the bathroom- matching towels to the blankets and sheets on the bed.

Megan could not understand- she had known there must be some reason that Don had been kidnapped, but she had never thought to find a child's bedroom to be the scene of captivity. Somehow, she had imagined it would be a bare room in a basement with a cot and a bowl for water- not this, a comfortable hideaway that indicated caring and love on the part of the decorator. But Thompson had referred to Don as her son when talking to Bob- had allowed him outside to play baseball- did the woman have the delusion that he was a young child? If she did- and he behaved that way- how could it have been possible for such an innocuous, petite woman to be able to turn a strong, intelligent man like Don into that child?

And how badly had he succumbed to her delusion- would it be possible to bring him out of it intact?

The agent's confusion was intensified by the absence of Don- where is he?

Megan walked back out to the bedroom, bending over to look under the bed.

Behind her, Colby voiced her earlier thoughts-

"What the hell is _this_?"

A rustling sound came from behind the recliner. Megan, David, and Colby all looked at each other, nodding in agreement to remain silent.

Walking on tiptoes, Megan approached the recliner from the left, leaning forward to look over its top. She could just see a mop of black hair and the top of hunched shoulders. Stepping back, she mouthed to her partners- _go back out_- as she pointed to the bedroom door.

All three exited noiselessly.

Shutting the door, Megan talked into her mike-

"I've found Eppes- appears Thompson may have been telling the truth. He's hiding- apparently from us. Pull the teams back- I'm going to see if I can bring him out to the ambulance."

"Is he armed, Reeves?" This from S.W.A.T.

"Don't know, but he doesn't appear to have a weapon. To be on the safe side, my two team members will continue support outside the bedroom, but everyone else needs to pull out."

"All right- I can agree to that plan. Only, I'm going to keep some men sighted on the house until you can confirm that he is unarmed."

"Affirmative."

Leaving David and Colby in the living room, Megan entered Don's bedroom again, walking straight to the recliner. She crouched down next to it, her weight on one knee. Peering around the side of the chair, she saw two moist, wide-opened eyes staring back at her.

Don was sitting scrunched in the corner behind the recliner, his knees to his chest, his arms squeezing his legs together, chin resting on top. Megan observed that he was shivering, and almost imperceptibly, he was trying to push himself into the wall.

"Hey, Don- remember me?"

No response.

"It's me, Megan."

Again, nothing.

Getting down on both knees, Megan tried to reach for Don, to pet his arm.

That garnered a response- he began _shaking_, eyes closing as he put his hands over his head, his face pressed into his legs.

Megan stood up, walking away from the recliner. She was disturbed at Don's reaction- he obviously did not recognize her and his fear was indicative of some kind of trauma, but she did not know what that trauma could have been. She hypothesized that he was dependent upon Thompson- typical in cases of Stockholm syndrome, in which the captive identifies with his capturers and begins to trust them when they do not harm or kill him- acts that the captive often fears will be carried out when they are first abducted. As Thompson had kept Don captive over two months- apparently without outside contact- Megan was not surprised at the current predicament; the woman was probably the only person that he trusted. But knowing this did not help her in getting him out to the ambulance- at this juncture, her only option would be to force him, which might aggravate his already unstable state of mind.

Sighing, Megan realized she had no other choice. If she wanted him to go with the minimum of fuss and damage, she'd have to allow Thompson to escort Don to the ambulance.

She left the room, explaining the problem to David and Colby, as well as to the rest of the teams.

Megan met Thompson when she was brought back to the front door of the latter's home, unlocked the cuffs around the psychiatrist's wrists and freed her hands from behind her back.

"Thank you," Thompson smiled, "I would like to make this as easy for him as possible."

_Too late for that_, Megan thought.

Escorting the psychiatrist to the first bedroom, Megan gave her a quick once-over. She noted the button-down blouse, the jeans, and canvas tennis shoes, slim body, soft facial features- her long black hair held back with a head band.

_She's really quite attractive, _Megan thought, _her files say she's fifty-five, but I'd have guessed mid-to-late forties._ _Seems perfectly normal- comes across like a suburban wife and P.T.A. member._

The assessment of 'seems perfectly normal' faded once Thompson and Megan entered the bedroom, and the woman began to address Don like a mother would her young child.

"Baby, it's me- come on out," she sang sweetly.

Thompson walked over to the recliner, leaning over as Megan had earlier. The agent scrutinized every move made and every word said- she knew it would be good observational material to use when she made her profile of Thompson later.

Movement could be heard coming from behind the recliner, then Megan watched as Thompson offered a hand to help Don come out of hiding; he came nervously to his feet, his legs wobbly.

As he stood in front of Thompson, Don's eyes slipped to Megan; when she smiled at him, he became stiff and dropped his head to his chest, his arms straight at his side and stock still.

"Now look at how wrinkly you are, baby, and after I made sure to iron so you'd be all nice and neat."

Megan heard Don mumble something, but could not make out his words as he spoke into his shirt.

Thompson pulled his black t-shirt down at the bottom, tugging it here and there, smoothing it over with the palms of her hands, spreading the hem evenly across his matching jeans. She reached up and straightened Don's hair with her fingers, and made him turn around to check his overall appearance. Finally satisfied, she told him-

"Baby- remember I told you we had to go bye-bye today"- Megan winced at the way Thompson was talking to Don, her voice high-pitched and sing-songy- "Well, this lady is here to take you to that someplace special."

Don shook his head slowly back and forth.

"It's okay, baby"- Thompson began calming Don, rubbing his arms and collar bone, lowering her voice and leaning into him; Megan memorized every movement.

She wondered if she was watching a performance for her benefit, if Thompson was trying to portray herself as kind and loving; but Megan knew that simply rubbing Don's arms and talking sweetly to him had not turned him into the quivering person she saw before her- something else had to have been done to him, she just couldn't guess what.

At least- not yet.

Before they could leave, Megan turned her mouth to her mike and sounded an 'all-clear' for the room and a confirmation that Don did not have a weapon.

When Thompson decided he was ready, she gripped Don's right arm and led him from his room, keeping up a litany of soothing words and sounds to keep him moving along with her.

Slowly, patiently, she took him to the waiting ambulance, which had been positioned immediately outside the front door. The entire time, Don refused to look up, focusing his eyes on Thompson's hand, allowing her to take him wherever she wanted to go, avoiding the stares of the agents that surrounded the house, guns pointed to the ground but still at the ready.

_Letting everyone see her dominance of him_, Megan thought, as she walked beside them.

David and Colby followed behind, wondering about the odd behavior they were witnessing between the two, but not offering any comments except the exchange of puzzled looks.

Once they came to the ambulance, Thompson instructed Don to climb in and sit on the bed. Megan noticed that Don did not lift his left arm- he pulled himself in using only his right hand, even though it appeared a difficult and awkward way of doing so.

_Could he have had a stroke- is that what started all of this?_ she thought.

When a male EMT started toward them, Thompson stopped him, looking at Megan-

"He does better with women- don't you have a female one?"

The paramedic looked at Megan, who just nodded. He went around to the front of the ambulance, and a female attendant appeared in his place.

Stepping inside the ambulance, Thompson and Megan sat on either side of the bed, the psychiatrist facing her former captive.

"Lie down, baby, and let me tuck you in."

Don shook his head, starting to cry. Megan had never seen him cry before, and had to restrain herself from reaching out to comfort him, he looked so forlorn. She was not the person he wanted to comfort him, though, so she sat idly by while she watched as Thompson sat down next to him and began a familiar routine, wrapping him in her arms and whispering in his ears, massaging his shoulders and back, kissing his head; he laid his head over her shoulder, crying and muttering a few indiscernible words.

Megan was torn at the sight- her feelings were a mix of horror at Don's weak behavior and attachment to his kidnapper, and misery for tearing the two apart, as it was so painful for her friend, even though she knew what he was feeling was not emotionally healthy or real, and had been caused by the very woman to whom he clung.

_The bitch is good- _she hated to admit.

After a few minutes of whispered directions, obediently, Don lay down, closing his eyes and keeping his arms flat at his sides. Thompson pulled the blankets up around him, promising him he would see her soon, kissing him one last time on the cheek, and adding-

"Don't forget to be a good little boy, Donny."

Megan got on her mike, trying not to be sick at this last statement-

"You can take Thompson back into custody. I'm going to ride with Don to the hospital; Sinclair, please act as liaison in my stead, and Granger- contact the Eppes- _in person_."

Before she left the ambulance, Thompson pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to Megan. Glancing at it momentarily, the agent looked up with a quizzical expression on her face.

"It's a list of private institutes," the doctor explained, "I am quite well-known and have a lot of connections. I don't think the general population at county would be good for Donny. And if money's a problem- I have plenty. Just let me know if you need any help."

Megan was stupefied- the woman had to have done _something_ to make the independent and brave man she once knew into the submissive and terrified- _child?_-she had been observing; now the crazy lady was offering to pay for the therapy that might repair the damage she had done?

Not responding to the offer, when the officer arrived to take Dr. Thompson away, Megan handed the list to him and said to bag it as evidence. With that, the female EMT shut the doors, strapped in Don, and the ambulance began its long trip back to Los Angeles.


	16. How They Raced For You

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters and places appearing in this story are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person or place- real or imagined.

Author's note: I rewrote Megan and David's response to finding Don at the end of the 'Red Baron' chapter. I think it was, as pointed out to me, too emotional. This is especially true considering the responses I am writing for Alan and Charlie.

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Megan had been resting her eyes for a couple hours when she heard Don's gentle snoring. Stretching, she started to look him over, barely squeezing his limbs to check for signs of injury.

"Already checked," the EMT- Nicki- informed her.

"Oh, good. How 'bout the left arm- I noticed he was keeping it stiff at his side?"

"Felt okay- but you're right, when I tried to raise it- just a little bit- couldn't get it to budge. Think it had to do more with him resisting rather than the arm can't be lifted. Won't be able to figure it out till we give him a thorough physical."

Now fully awake, Megan felt the urge to run her fingers through Don's hair, a comforting motion for herself and her friend. As her palm brushed his forehead, a warning sounded in her head that made her pulse begin to race. She slid closer to Don, carefully pressing the tips of her fingers to his temples.

_Oh, lord_!

"Give me that flashlight over there, please."

Nicki passed it to Megan, who shone it on Don's forehead, cupping her left hand over his eyes so as not to disturb him.

She recognized the very slight unevenness that marked his temples, and the soft, spongy feeling as she pressed lightly down.

_Water on the brain, most likely from some kind of traumatic brain injury_- she diagnosed, recognizing the tell-tale signs from her college training; she slumped back against the side of the ambulance, the flashlight hanging down in her hand.

Everything changed in that instance, as Megan realized that Don would probably have to be treated not only for psychological trauma but for physical as well. This meant that, once he was properly diagnosed, he would probably have to be kept at a state hospital in their psych ward, so he would have easy access to the medical facilities that would be necessary to treat the injury. The typical private institution would have location logistics against it.

Megan had already decided before this discovery that Don needed a private institution. She was aware of the problems the state hospital tended to have because of inmate overpopulation and personnel understaffing; often, the patients were not able to receive the optimum treatment and were overlooked when it came to proper care. It was also not unusual to hear reports of inmate assaults on each other- including rape- and cases in which they harmed themselves or escaped.

In addition, with Don's current state of anxiety and fear, she highly doubted that he would not need to be sedated, in order to help calm his reaction to the often chaotic atmosphere the state hospital offered; this would help control the symptoms- but would not do anything to cure his psychological problems themselves.

For these reasons, Megan did not believe that the Eppes would be satisfied if Don were placed in the state hospital.

_Don needs a private institution- one that can meet both his psychological **and** physiological needs._

The problem was not only in finding an institution that met those needs; there were two other obstacles that would be much harder to overcome: finding an available opening at an appropriate place, and obtaining the necessary funds. As Los Angeles county and its surrounding area were full of spoiled, rich actors and business moguls, they tended to fill up the private wards whenever they felt they needed to change the scenery in which they were pampered, making waiting lists a common occurrence. And because of this demand, the prices for the offered services tended to be higher than what the average health insurance was willing to pay. As Don was a public employee, she doubted his government insurance would cover the expenses a private institution would charge- especially one that had the medical facilities she now believed he needed.

Pushing the cost issue aside- maybe Charlie could raise the funds for his brother- Megan decided to focus on the other two aspects: finding a private psych ward with medical facilities attached, and then getting Don signed in to it that night- the more difficult of the two feats. Thinking hard, Megan tried to figure out if she knew anyone who had the connections to find such a place _and_ get Don admitted over other potential clients. She wasn't part of the jet-setting, rich and famous west coast population; she also wasn't part of the more conservative country-club scene.

However, Megan did have direct contact with a person who always seemed to _know someone who knew someone who knew…_

Opening up her cell phone, she dialed a recently acquired private number, nervously biting her bottom lip.

When she heard the deep-throated "Hello" at the other end, she was embarrassed by the high-pitched squeak that came out of her mouth in reply-

"Daddy- it's Megan. I need to ask you for a really big favor…"

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Colby pulled up outside the home of Charlie and Alan Eppes. It was after midnight, but he was glad to see that several lights were still on in the house. He was about to exit his car when his cell phone rang.

"Granger."

"It's Megan, Colby- have you talked to the Eppes yet?"

"No- but I'm at their house. I was just about to knock on their door, as a matter of fact."

"Well, I've got an unusual situation here- it concerns where Don is going tonight. Can you have Alan give me a call after you talk to him?"

"Sure thing. Uh, is something wrong?"

"No, not really- I'll explain later. I have to go- just tell him to call me."

With that, she hung up and the tired, younger agent started toward the Epppes' house.

Ringing the front doorbell, Colby knew he wanted to get the information out of his mouth as quick as he could; he was afraid delaying it might give Alan and Charlie the impression that he was there to inform them of Don's death. Even though the misinterpretation of his presence might only last a moment- in Colby's mind, that was one second too long. With that in mind, he also decided to paste the proper expression upon his face.

Alan opened the door to a smiling federal agent.

"Colby- what are you doing here so"-

Don's father knew right away, as only a parent could.

"You found him- you found Donny." Statement, not question.

Grabbing Colby by the arm, Alan yanked the younger man into his home, slamming the door and taking a demanding posture, with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Yes, Mr. Eppes- Alan, we found him. He's alive."

Alan closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and faltered a little in his solid stance. Colby took the now-trembling elder man by the elbow, leading him to the couch in the living room. Both men sat down, as Alan steadied his breathing and nervously rubbed his hands together, looking to Colby for further information-

"He was recognized by an old man up in a city called Alta Sierra. From what we can tell, a woman by the name of Dr. Melinda Thompson kidnapped Don and held him captive over the past two months."

"A doctor?" Alan asked.

"A psychiatrist."

Alan thought this over- what kind of mental damage could a woman with that kind of training have done to his son?

"Is he alright- she didn't hurt him, did she?"

"Not as far as we can tell," Colby replied, purposely avoiding the issues of Don's expression of fear at- and lack of recognition of- his colleagues and friends. He knew that was Megan's job to explain to his family.

"Where is he? I want to see him."

"I don't know which hospital Megan is taking him to- she wanted me to tell you to call her as soon as you heard the news."

After hitting speed dial on his cell phone, Colby handed it over.

Alan heard a blustered 'hello' when the phone stopped ringing.

"It's Alan Eppes, Megan. Colby said you wanted me to call you."

"Yes, Alan- oh, wait- hold on a minute."

As if the phone at the other end had been set down, Alan could hear the faded sound of voices; he was just barely able to discern what they said-

_"No- not there, Donny, on the bottom line."_ Megan's voice.

_"Agent Reeves- really, he has to sign his name quickly- they will be arriving any minute."_ An unknown male voice.

_"I'm trying- damn, I mean, shoot- sorry Donny. It's Eppes- not Thompson- you have another form, Dr. Wang?"_ Megan again, sounding frustrated.

The rustling of paper-

_"He can't hold the pen- don't you have a fatter one? Wait a minute- let me help"-_ Megan.

_"Doctor- they're entering the parking lot- really, Ms. Reeves, he's got to **hurry**."_ An unknown female, panic in her voice.

_"I'll try heading them off at the pass- Agent Reeves, he's got to have that signed before they get here! Otherwise, I have no choice…"_ That same male voice.

_"Come on, Donny- please, just please!"_ Megan pleading, _"E- now P, now P- good, that's it, that's what you need to write."_

Finally, Megan spoke directly in the phone-

"I'm sorry Alan- I've got to go. Please stay by the phone- I'll call you right back."

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Megan was coaching Don at the front entrance desk of the most exclusive private trauma treatment institution on the western coast of the United States. It had only twelve rooms available- each one with its own full-size bath and 'recreation accommodations' -both directly accessible from the patient's private room; a full nursing staff was assigned to every three patients; several doctors made rounds on a daily basis; any request was granted by a string of twenty-four hour-available gophers; it also had an outpatient building, in which a staff of psychologists saw patients for hourly sessions, and a small research building- but, most importantly- it had a fully-equipped medical and occupational therapy facility attached.

Its prices were also astronomical and its waiting list so long that people planned their nervous breakdowns to coincide with the availability of a room.

Somehow, Megan's father had contacted a friend- who talked to a friend- who called in a favor from a friend- who had direct access to the chief administrator and head psychiatrist of the institute- Dr. Wang. The doctor had relayed the message down the line that Megan should contact him personally, which she had done en route to Los Angeles.

Megan had explained Don's situation to Wang, trying to emphasize what a good person her friend was, practically begging him access to the facility. Wang had been sympathetic-

"I would like to admit your companion, Agent Reeves- but you must understand, I do not own this institution- it belongs to a corporation out of Texas. My contract gives me leeway in many areas, all except one- when a person who is considered, uh, 'first rate' wants admittance, he is given 'first option'. At this moment, I have one bed available- and one 'first rate' customer who is most likely on his way to request it."

Megan was disappointed, until the doctor finished-

"However, if, by chance, that bed is already filled by your friend when the 'first rate' gets here- well, then, your friend will get to stay. Once a patient is signed in- they do not lose their room."

Megan had immediately hung up the phone, told the ambulance driver the address that Wang had given her, and asked him to put on his siren-

"Put the pedal to the metal! We've got to hurry!"

Upon their arrival, Dr. Wang had come out to the ambulance himself, as Megan and Nicki had walked a still-sleepy Don through the facility's front doors, the doctor trying to hurry them to the desk at which they were currently standing.

"Come on, Donny, finish the last two letters," Megan implored him to finish signing the admittance papers. She had ended her conversation with Alan when she realized it would take her full attention to get Don to write his complete name.

Megan wasn't sure if Don did not remember how to sign his name, was too groggy to be able to focus on what he needed to do- or was simply being stubborn. For some reason, she believed the last option was probably the answer, because he occasionally lifted his face to hers, honoring her with his well-known Don Eppes scowl.

Outside, she could hear the loud sounds of a large crowd of people exiting their cars, trucks, and vans as one. She knew it was a herd of news people following the recently 'discovered' Tommy Larson. Dr. Wang had explained the situation in detail as they had rushed through the front doors-

"They found him today. Apparently, the whole kidnapping story was a hoax- claims he and his girlfriend concocted it to get back at the media. Said he was tired of always being followed around. Hmph- like anyone believes that. Everyone knows it was just another way for him to get publicity- it just did not turn out like he expected. Seems he decided to hide in the Los Padres National Forest- went to the remotest point he could find. Only, Larson has never done anything like that before- at least, not without a guide holding his hand the whole way."

Dr. Wang had indicated to a nurse to pull out a set of admitting papers.

"He couldn't keep track of his location, used up all of his supplies, and wandered around the past couple weeks living off what edible plants he could find. The girlfriend confessed the whole thing when he didn't turn up at their designated rendezvous last Sunday. They found him once they knew where to look- still, it took a while. But now that the federal government and local police forces are threatening to charge him with fraud, the rumor's spreading that he is going to claim that he was 'traumatized' from the whole experience, and needs to be admitted for treatment and rest at the most respected and exclusive institution around. Which means he wants to try to hide out in mine until the whole thing blows over- which is what he always does."

Dr. Wang had treated Larson for 'trauma' on many other occasions, always the result of being caught doing some illegal stunt and threatened with prosecution. The doctor had decided that this time he would rather help a truly-traumatized federal agent than the spoiled rich kid who thought he could get all the people around him to bow to his demands. But he needed to have the right papers signed in order to do that.

Which was why Megan was desperately trying to get Don to admit himself into the institution; once Larson sauntered through the front doors, Wang would have to allow him the room that both the doctor and Megan desired for Don. There were too many media personnel in attendance for Wang to claim that he had lacked the knowledge of Larson's interest in the institution.

As the ruckus outside got louder, Megan finally wrapped her hand around Don's- the nurse at the desk conveniently turned her back when she saw what the agent was doing- and wrote the last two letters of his name herself.

"Finished!" she said, patting Don on the back, ignoring how he bent away from her touch.

Snatching them up, the nurse ran to Dr. Wang, shoving the sheaf of papers into his hand; the doctor had been pressed inside by the sheer magnitude of Tommy Larson and his personal court of attendants, the hounds of the media left behind to peer inside and record the unfolding events through the glass of the front doors and windows.

Quickly looking the paperwork over, satisfied that the signature was correctly filled out, Dr. Wang put on his most apologetic face- though he smiled heartily to himself inside his head-

"Mr. Larson- I am so, so, _soooo_ sorry you did not call ahead."

Tommy-who had come in leaning on his personal assistant with his arm wrapped tightly around his waist, his face down with a look of exhausted misery- suddenly snapped up his head.

"What do you mean by 'sorry'?"

"Well, it seems my last bed was filled right before you came. If I had been notified- I would have of course saved it for you. But, as you did not call and let me know your interest..."

Tommy stood straight up, pulling away from his assistant, his fists tightening at his sides.

"What the hell do you mean you didn't know? How could you not know? I always stay here."

"Well, yes, of course- but I had no idea you were in need of a bed."

Tommy began to pace back and forth, finally stopping in front of the doctor and stamping his feet.

He began to shout, his voice getting louder and louder with every word-

"My rescue has been all over the news- you _had_ to know I would need a bed." Shoving the tip of his finger against the doctor's chest each time he said a word-

"I-demand- a- room- right- _now_."

"No."

Not used to hearing the word, Tommy stepped back a couple feet, shock registering on his face; he did not know how to respond. After a few minutes, to the surprise of all present, he began to throw a temper tantrum, stomping back and forth in front of the doctor, throwing his fists around in the air, his face red with frustration, tears of anger wetting his face, as he loudly demanded-

"Now! I want a room now!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Dr. Wang caught sight of Don. He was standing next to the front entrance desk, cowering behind the nurse, obviously frightened by the large group of people and the screaming of Larson. The doctor decided he had had enough- and so had his patient. He pulled out a small walkie-talkie from his coat pocket, and whispered a few orders into it.

Within ten seconds, a small force of security guards surrounded Dr. Wang, each one of them wearing a business suit and maintaining a calm professional air about them. At their appearance, Tommy became quiet, standing still in the middle of the reception area with his mouth hanging open. The head of security politely, gently, and firmly grasped Tommy by his upper arm- the latter staring at the guard's hand as if he could not believe it really had the nerve to touch him. The rest of the guards began carefully guiding the rest of the entourage out the front doors, as Tommy himself was turned around and hauled from the institute, the last one to be set outside its front doors.

Then, the institute was locked up, front blinds dropping from hidden recesses above the windows and door. The group of people in the parking lot was left standing stunned at the entire astonishing proceeding, their view of and ability to enter the institute effectively blocked.

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After sending the security detail away, Dr. Wang went to attend to his new patient, offering his hand in greeting.

Don tried to hide further behind the nurse, the wall behind him defeating his attempt.

"My name is Dr. Wang, Mr. Eppes," he spoke gently; "I will personally be overseeing your therapy during the course of your stay."

Don looked down, then back up again, quietly asking-

"You're the doctor?"

"Yes- I'm the doctor."

Reaching into his back pants pocket, Don pulled out three sheets of printing paper that were folded neatly into a small square. He handed it around the nurse to Dr. Wang, who carefully opened the package and began to read.

"May I have a look?" Megan asked, standing to the immediate left of the doctor.

Flipping a page, Wang responded nicely- "No."

Raising her eyebrows, Megan wondered- "And why not?"

"You may not look at the papers, Ms. Reeves, because they were given to me in confidentiality by my patient."

Trying a different tactic-

"I need to take those papers into my custody. They were removed from the scene of a crime and are evidence."

"Do you have a warrant to that effect, _Agent_ Reeves?"

Taken aback, Megan tried to read the papers over the doctor's shoulder before he folded them shut again, sliding them into his pocket.

She was only able to make out a few phrases-

"takes one daily, with bubb"-

"-fers strawberry, his favorite fla"-

"always talked to Buddy, his best frie"-

Resignedly, Megan decided the doctor was correct; she didn't have a court order and Don had a right to keep the papers private until she obtained one.

"Well, now Mr. Eppes"-

"Donny- my name," came a hesitant reply.

Smiling, Wang corrected himself-

"Okay, Donny, we have a very nice room set up for you- just for you, and no one else. Would you like to see it?"

Don glanced toward the front doors; a few straggling voices could still be heard. Deciding he did not want to be near them anymore, he nodded his head in affirmation.

The nurse buzzed the door to the wing open as Dr. Wang directed his newly acquired patient to enter; but Don stopped at the threshold, his eyes staring longingly at the nurse.

Megan explained-

"He seems more trusting of females."

"Oh, yes- of course, of course." Wang again spoke into his walkie-talkie. From down the hall in front of them, coming through a door at the end, two young nurses appeared, approaching Don and each taking him by a hand.

"Now, then, are we ready to go?" The doctor asked.

Don allowed the nurses to lead him, but again stopped when Megan started through the door. He looked at Wang, and indicating Megan with his eyes, he stated flatly-

"Not her."

"Patricia, Michelle- please take Donny to his room. I will be there momentarily."

The nurses walked their new patient down the hallway; when Megan again tried to follow, she found her path barred by the very strong arm of Dr. Wang.

"Agent Reeves- may I speak to you a moment," he commanded, nudging her back into the reception area.

Megan's view of Don disappeared as Dr. Wang shut the door behind him.

"I am sorry, but Mr. Eppes signed himself into this institute of his own free will. Now that he is a patient, he has the right to deny any person access- to his treatment, to his records- and to himself."

Megan knew what he was saying was not new to her; she was aware of the laws governing patient-client privilege. But Dr. Wang had been so supportive of her getting Don signed in that somehow she had forgotten that the institution would not be available to her but only to him, as he was the patient.

This meant that unless Don gave written permission for her to visit and inquire about his therapy, she would indeed be barred access to him.

Even worse, this rule would also apply to Alan and Charlie; Megan began to wonder if she had been correct in her decision to bring Don here, and if she had even had the right to decide.

"But his family; he has a father and brother who will want to see him as soon as possible."

"I understand." Dr. Wang explained sympathetically, walking Megan to a back exit, "but I can not violate the rights of Mr. Eppes."

He could see that the young woman was upset.

"Listen to me- if you're friend is as ill as you suppose, Mr. Eppes' father will have a legal way to see his son. Unfortunately, it will take time and money. Tell him to call me in the morning- let's say ten o'clock; I first have some observations I want to make of Donny. Then I can advise him as to the options open to him, without disclosing any personal information about his son."

As Megan left the building, Wang apologized-

"I'm sorry, but it's the best I can do."

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Alan paced back and forth, waiting for the phone to ring. Since hanging up with Megan, he had tried to reach Charlie on his cell phone. _Old habits die hard_, he'd thought, as his youngest son still forgot to turn it on.

Colby sat on the couch with his eyes shut, trying to catch a few minutes of rest. It had been a long two days and he could not wait till he could get some real sleep, but he was unable to estimate how long it would be before he could.

The ringing of the phone brought both men to attention, as Alan grabbed the receiver and gave a hoarse 'hello' to the person who was calling.

"It's Megan, Alan."

"Thank God- I don't think I could wait another minute. Where's Donny?- I want to see him."

Clearing her throat as many times as she could, Megan answered-

"In a private psychological institution- he was admitted about twenty minutes ago."

"Which one? I can drive there myself- if it's okay, I'd like to leave Colby at my house for when Charlie comes"-

Megan interrupted-

"You can't see him just yet."

Adding-

"It's complicated, Alan- I could be there within the hour, if you want me to explain in person; or, I can just tell you over the phone, whichever you want."

"I can't wait an hour- I need to know why my son is being kept from me." Alan's voice was taking on an authoritative tone.

"Please- I have a lot to explain. Will you listen first, and then ask questions?"

"Okay," Alan agreed, realizing that he was delaying her explanation. He sat down in his recliner so he could take in all that she said.

"Before I begin, I need to emphasize that some of what I am about to tell you is _pure speculation_; I just want you to know why I took the actions that I did. What we think we know about what happened to Don will change over the course of the investigation. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

Megan proceeded to chronicle how they had found Don, to tell him a little about the woman who had held his son captive, and to describe how his 'bedroom' had been decorated. She then described Don's inability to recognize her, as well as the symptoms of anxiety and fear that he exhibited. Last, she detailed Thompson's behavior, and Don's submissiveness to her.

Next, Megan recounted how she had found a private institution for Don- leaving out the part about brain injury, as she did not want to impart a diagnosis that she was not licensed to give. She told Alan about the conditions in the state hospital, and how she did not believe that he or Charlie would have wanted Don placed there. Then, she listed the events that led to her racing to get Don admitted into the institution, and how they had been competing for a spot with the infamous Tommy Larson. Last, she informed Alan what Dr. Wang had told her, how Don would have to sign permission for anyone to access him or his records, and then she gave him the doctor's number, telling him to call at ten o'clock that morning.

"Please forgive me for not getting your permission first, Alan- I was just trying to find an available facility for Don that would meet your exacting standards."

Alan nodded into the phone-

"You don't have to apologize, Megan. I sometimes find it hard to believe what great friends Donny has. I just don't know how I could possibly thank you enough."

"Still- now you and Charlie can't see Don..."

"Megan- based on what you have told me, I don't know if I would _want _to see him if he were currently being held at that state hospital. I think I'm going to track Charlie down and then get ready for my talk with Wang tomorrow."

He assured her-

"It's enough for me to know he's out of the clutches of that woman and is safely resting tonight."


	17. Who We Hired To Help Us

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters and places are fictional, and should not be associated with any person or place- real or imagined.

Author's note: Complaint I'm too choppy. Think I agree. Changed my method some. Hope it's better. :) At the risk of receiving a hundred writing criticisms, I am going to admit that I actually do pay attention when I receive a critique. That is one reason why I rewrote Chapter 7, why I changed Melinda from a psychologist to a psychiatrist, and made David and Megan's reactions less emotional at the end of the'Red Baron". Until it was recently pointed out, I had not realized how choppy all those - symbols were making my writing, and I may go back and do some repairs on my previous chapters later. So far, I have found all of my critiques to be very constructive and I truly thank you for them. On another note, I am on spring break, so I am spending all my time writing and want to post as many chapters as I can this week. Feel free to send me a polite slow down if you see that my writing is suffering. : )

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It was less than a half-hour before Alan was supposed to call Dr. Wang, when Charlie came flying into the house, the front door left open behind him.

"Dad! Dad!"

He ran up the stairs to check his father's bedroom, then raced through the other upstairs rooms before running back down the stairs and heading to the kitchen. When he did not find Alan, he walked slowly back to the entryway, lost in his thoughts as he shut the front door.

"Are you looking for me, Charlie?"

His attention drawn to the living room, Charlie realized his father was sitting calmly in his recliner. "Look," he exclaimed, waving a DVD in front of his father. Turning on their television, he put the disc in their machine and pressed play on the remote control. Alan leaned forward as he saw a newscast begin to unfold: there was a crowd of people surrounding a low, white building with tall glass doors and windows in front. The camera angle changed as it floated over the shoulder of the speaking newswoman and zoomed in behind her, focusing inside as suited-men escorted a group of people out through the entrance.

"There- there! In the back." Charlie pointed to the upper left-hand corner of the screen, pressing pause on the remote that he was continually fidgeting with in his hand. Getting out of his seat, Alan put on his reading glasses and walked to the television, his eyes fixed on the area just above the spot where the tip of Charlie's finger rested. He abruptly jerked back, whipping off his glasses.

"It's Don!" he blurted.

"I know. One of my students brought this to task force headquarters today. And that's Megan standing next to him. They must have found him sometime yesterday; for some inexplicable reason, they haven't been able to notify us yet." Charlie paced back and forth across the hardwood floor, his thoughts swimming laps around the inside of his skull.

"Sit down, Charlie. I've got something to tell you." Recognizing the seriousness of his father's tone, Charlie plopped onto the couch, the remote control continuing to be twirled in his left hand. "Colby came by sometime after midnight. I tried to get a hold of you, but you never turn your damn cell phone on."

Pulling his phone from his jacket, Charlie confirmed that his father was right- damn thing wasn't turned on; it wasn't even charged. "So, where is he? When can we see him? Was that a hospital he was at?"

Out of habit, Alan put up a hand to slow his son down. When he had Charlie's full attention, he took a deep breath and began to explain everything that he had been told, purposely omitting several of the details concerning Don's behavior. He was afraid of how Charlie would react to hearing his brother was behaving submissively and fearfully toward a seemingly harmless woman, as his youngest son's view of his brother was of a strong and commanding man. Better to wait until he heard from Dr. Wang, as it wasn't important just then.

When his father told him where Don had been found, Charlie interrupted him, "Alta Sierra? I was there just last week. I took a student of mine to see his grandfather." Tossing the remote on the couch, Charlie started chewing his left index finger, resting his head in the palm of his right hand. "Jimmy, it must have been Jimmy who recognized Don. His grandfather came and got him a couple days ago. He hasn't been back to task force headquarters since and I've been told that he's called off from all his classes this week."

"I guess it's possible, but I don't know because Megan never told me the name of the person who sighted him. She just said it was a neighbor who saw Don walking around the doctor's property."

Charlie's head jerked up out of his hand.

"Doctor? You don't mean Dr. Thompson? Don wasn't found there, was he?"

Alan studied his son, responding, "How did you know about Thompson, Charlie? Do you know the woman?"

Jumping off the couch and beginning to pace, Charlie started work on tearing the flesh from his ring finger. "Bob, Jimmy's grandfather, said the woman had a son that had just gotten out of an institute. He referred to her son as 'special', but I know he meant slow, Dad. He also described Dr. Thompson's son as being terrified of her, and he said that she was evil." Charlie ran his fingers through his hair over and over again, his whole body busy with agitation. "If that was Don, w-what did she do to him; he has a high-average I.Q. and would never be described as special. And what would make him afraid of her? She's just one middle-aged woman while Don's strong, and he carries a gun, and h-has defense training..." A look of horror mingled with guilt suddenly took over Charlie's features. "I saw him Dad. When I left Bob's, I drove by Thompson's house and took a l-look at it; I was curious about what Bob had said. It must have been D-don who I saw standing in the window, but I c-couldn't see his face. H-how come I didn't recognize him, my own brother..."

Alan stood up and strongly gripped his youngest son's arms, forcing him to slow his flustered movements. "Look at me, Charlie," Alan demanded, waiting until his son's eyes met his own. "There is no possible way for you to have known Don was in that house, no way at all. And if Jimmy was the one who recognized Don, you have to remember that if you hadn't given him a ride to see his grandfather, your brother would never have been found. That's what's important, not these illogical questions of 'why didn't I'." Rubbing Charlie's arms, he continued, "As for what that psychiatrist might have done to Don, if we rely on our imaginations, we'll be able to think up a million horrible scenarios. Let's keep our speculations in check, and wait until Megan is able to tell us more. It might not be as bad as you think. Now, it's time for me to call Dr. Wang, and we'll see what he has to say about the whole situation."

Nodding his head, Charlie sat down, listening to his father's end of the conversation as his leg bounced up and down, a stream of numbers repeating the same disturbed movement in his head.

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After he had escorted Megan out in the early hours of the morning, Dr. Wang went back to his office to thoroughly read the three printed pages that Donny had handed him. The first page was a schedule, listing hourly times on the left hand of the paper with corresponding activities on the right. Things like_: 7:00- wakes up, uses bathroom, has three bottles; 8:00- takes a bath, gets dressed; 9:00- watches cartoons until lunch; _and so on, so forth. The second page listed the details that affected the successful completion of the activities listed on page one: _He drinks flavored adult supplements- prefers strawberry, his favorite flavor. He wears jeans and t-shirts, and is never without his belt- he needs help getting dressed and undoing his clothes, but not in actually using the bathroom. He loves to take a bath- he takes one daily, with bubbles and hot water... _The last page was simply a list of items that, according to Dr. Thompson, Donny would need in order to be happy, including name brands of personal items and clothing, as well as specific types of toys; she had even included the names of stores at which the items could be purchased.

After scanning and printing the last page, Dr. Wang called in his staff of gofers, handing them each a copy. When his lead man looked over the list, his only question was, "What time?" as he and his partners were used to obtaining odd items at all hours of the day and night. Dr. Wang stated seven a.m., but preferably six-thirty if possible. With a 'no problem', the men set off to their tasks, returning to the institution at a remarkable six-fifteen, which allowed Donny's nursing staff time to set up his bath and recreation rooms while he slept; his new bedding they folded and kept at the nurses' station until he was awake and out of bed.

At seven o'clock, Wang began a two-hour vigil watching Donny from the comfort of his office. His computer was connected to every camera in the institution; with a push of the button he could see into every single room within the building, except the lockers and bathrooms designated for the staff. The bathrooms of the patients, however, were not off limits to him; it was a necessary precaution against suicides, and was clearly stated in all admitting papers. He watched as his new patient, who was clad in t-shirt and boxers, scooted out of his bed, looked wildly around the room and thrusted his right thumb into his mouth. Noticing the bathroom through its open door, he used the facility, and then partially opened its door, peeking around the edge, probably to see if anyone had entered the room while the door was shut. He then sat on the end of his bed, pulling a large plastic zip-locked bag from under his shirt, where it had stayed in place from the combined pressure of his left arm and the waistband at the top of his boxers. Opening it, he pulled out a flattened bundle of fur.

_Ah- so there's Buddy_, Wang thought, writing notes in an old-fashioned manner within the pages of a leather ledger. He noted the way Donny clung to the rabbit while he readjusted himself under the blankets of his bed, hiding the toy underneath so it could not be seen by curious eyes, his thumb still stuck within the wet thickness of his mouth. Debra, one of his day nurses, came in at that moment, smiling sweetly while she used the fingers of her right hand to toy with the long, black hair that fell angelically about her young neck and shoulders, a small cooler bag hanging from her left arm.Wang had specifically placed her with Donny because she had a similar appearance to Dr. Thompson; Wang had met the latter on several occasions during the course of his career, as they had tended to run in the same professional circles.

When first hearing of Dr. Thompson's involvement from Megan, Wang _had_ wondered why the psychiatrist would choose to kidnap the man he was watching. He knew that at one time she was highly regarded- considered at the top of her field. Whatever the reason for her digression from respectability, Wang decided that he would follow the dictates of her listed routine; Donny was showing signs of anxiety disorder and, in order to keep its symptoms under control, his doctor felt that he needed the structured schedule that he had become accustomed to- at least until he received thorough physical and clinical evaluations.

Still, even though he appeared fearful and anxious of his new surroundings and the staff, Dr. Wang had seen that Donny eventually did whatever he was told. The only time he had observed any real opposition from his patient was when he had insisted that Agent Reeves not escort him to his room. Wang suspected that this, along with the handing over of the printed notes, had been a directive from Dr. Thompson; even though Donny was no longer in her presence, he continued to be obedient to her. Which was probably why he obeyed every direction the nursing staff had given him from the moment he had been placed in his room, for he had obviously been taught well to submit to females.

Wang continued to write down notes as Debra stood next to Donny's bed, her patient shivering and crying in response to her closeness, pulling his blankets over his head to hide. Debra pulled three bottles from the bag on her arm and pressed the air from each one, then she gently pulled the blankets back down over Donny's head, managing to get him to drink through soft coaxing words and a compliment of 'what a handsome rabbit Buddy is'. Using the same soothing technique, she was able to persuade him to let her give him his bath. Wang could not keep from rolling his eyes when the pretty nurse casually remarked, "Oh, you're not _entirely_ a little boy, now are you" when she helped her patient out of his clothes and into the tub; the doctor recorded that the nurse's observation had garnered no verbal or physical response from Donny. _The kind of innocence for her double entendre that one might expect from a child, _he thought. The doctor was better-satisfied with his nurse's behavior when he noticed that she averted her eyes when drying Donny off after the bath, her way of reestablishing her professional detachment.

Once Donny had been dressed, Dr. Wang switched the computer's view from the bedroom to the recreation room. It was this view that he was continuing to watch when his phone range. He picked it up with a crisp introduction of "Dr. Wang."

"My name is Alan Eppes. I believe you have my son, Donny, at your institution?"

"Ah, Mr. Eppes," he replied, tilting back his chair, "I can neither confirm nor deny that your son is currently listed as one of our patients; I am not misguided, however, in my own belief that you already have the answer to that question?"

"Yes, I talked to Agent Reeves early this morning. Besides, my younger son brought me a recording of a newscast that was filmed outside your institution. I can clearly see Donny standing inside with Megan, a nurse, and a doctor- whom I suppose would be you."

"Hmmm, yes, no reason in denying it was me. That little incident was beyond my control and regrettable, very regrettable. I do not like my patients to be disturbed by clowns and circuses and the parades they bring. However, if you watched the entire broadcast, you must have seen that I have my own little methods of putting a stop to any unsolicited show."

"They are very effective methods from what I observed."

"Well, then, let's get down to business, Mr. Eppes. I can not violate the privacy rights of any of my clients. However, I can give you a suggestion that is general in nature and could easily apply to any number of patients."

"I'm listening."

"When an adult individual becomes incapacitated mentally, his next of kin can petition to become his conservator; once appointed, that conservator can then make medical and financial decisions for the incapacitated individual- gain access to him and all his records. The person petitioning for conservatorship would need a good attorney; I happen to know an exceptional one with whom I have worked in the past."

Taking the name of the attorney, Alan thanked the doctor for the legal advice and for taking good care of Donny.

While he talked, Dr. Wang watched as Donny sat on the floor of his recreation room, his legs stretched out before him and with his back against the only seating in the room, a large, overstuffed couch. Besides the television and DVD player that he was watching, the only other furniture in the room was a newly acquired blue toy box that was filled to the specifications of Dr. Thompson once again. Donny was sucking his thumb and cuddling Buddy, occasionally dropping his head to whisper in the rabbit's right ear, the whole time pulling and stretching the left one.

When at last he put down the receiver of the phone, Dr. Wang again wondered about the purpose behind the behavior of his former colleague. _Once, you were considered the best in your field- no one could touch you,_ he thought, _is this broken man I see before me the result of a personal experiment to prove just that. _Stepping away from his desk, Dr. Wang checked off a series of physiological and psychological evaluations on a chart – ones that he wanted performed on Donny. As he went to personally see to his patient, he privately promised Dr. Thompson, _Well, **I** am now the best in **my** field- and I'm going to repair all of the damage that you've caused._

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"Bet he's expensive."

"Does it really matter, Charlie. I want your brother back and we've already spent so much."

The Eppes men were sitting in the small reception area of Harvey Johnson's office. Every bit of decoration around them spoke of refined taste, from the authentic classical paintings on the wall, to the imported oriental rugs and the Indiana limestone that comprised two walls, to the soft leather of the chairs upon which they sat. It also spoke the language of expense, lots of expense.

Alan had been surprised to get an appointment that day; he had only to mention Wang's name and the receptionist told him to come in at two o'clock. He and Charlie had gotten some sleep before driving to the downtown office of Johnson.

The receptionist looked up from her typing promptly at two, inviting the men into Johnson's office, where they scrutinized the attorney.

Harvey Johnson was somewhere between the ages of thirty-five and fifty-five, his appearance shifting up and down the scale according to the dictates of the jury; he could seem younger and hipper to a jury that responded to a more youthful approach, or he could take on the worn mannerisms of the experienced sage, if that was what the twelve people in the box expected of him. In any case, he was a tall man- well over six feet- and had brown hair speckled with gray, blue eyes with the perfect touch of wrinkles at the corners, and a broad, inviting smile that greeted Alan and Charlie when he stood up to confidently shake their hands and exchange introductions. A deep, measured voice came from between his tight lips as he asked them to sit down.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, gentlemen."

"Thank you for squeezing us in, Mr. Johnson. We are in a hurry to conduct our business."

"Of course, most of my clients usually are. Now, am I to assume that you want to petition to become conservator of a loved one?"

"Yes. I see you have already talked to Dr. Wang."

"No, I haven't. The cases that Wang tends to send me are those involving conservatorship. It is an area in which I excel."

"Oh, I see. Well, what do we need to do, and how long will it take?"

"Normally, the procedure would be long and drawn out. We would first petition the court; they would assign a court investigator to investigate whether the individual actually needs a conservator; then we would have to write letters to the individual and other family members so they would have knowledge of the petition; the court might then order physical and psychological evaluations to be performed on the individual, as well as interview the potential conservatee; and, then finally, a court date would be set up to review the information gathered by the court investigator, as well as the evaluations and the testimony of the individual's family and friends. If the court determined a conservator was necessary to the well-being of the individual, then you would be appointed."

Alan and Charlie sat back in their chairs. This was going to take too long- they couldn't wait for all this legal procedure to be finished before they saw Don. It had already been over two months.

Sensing their exasperation, Johnson revealed his trump card, explaining cockily, "Or I can put in a petition for an emergency conservatorship. It is only temporary, but it will fulfill your needs. No letters of notification, no long court investigation, and no waiting months for a hearing. All we'd need would be a statement from Dr. Wang that some life and death medical decision needs to be made and your son is too incapacitated to make it. At the most, we are talking a week."

Johnson beamed proudly at Alan and Charlie. They looked at each other, Alan turning with a frown to the attorney.

"But what if there is no life and death medical decision. To all appearances, my son seems to be in good shape..."

"Don't worry, Mr. Eppes, I will take care of everything. That is why you are going to pay me all my expensive but well-deserved fees."

The attorney cordially handed Alan a detailed list of his fees along with the required court costs. After looking it over, he and Charlie agreed to the expenses with the stipulation that it would take no more than a week for Alan to become conservator. Johnson handed him a gold-rimmed pen and contract, which Alan dutifully signed as his attorney assured them that their demand would be met. When he was finished, Alan wrote a check out to Johnson, who deftly slipped it into the top drawer of his desk, then stood up to walk the Eppes to his door. "Very well, gentlemen, I would like to wish you good day. By a week from today, Mr. Eppes, I guarantee you will both be conservator of and have gained access to your son."

While they waited for the elevator to arrive, Charlie turned to Alan and sadly complained, "I don't think Johnson understands that another week is going to feel like eternity with Don so close but out of reach..."

Alan could only nod his head in agreement.


	18. What Explanations She Made

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or any of the characters therein. Any character in this story is fictional and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

Author's note: We're getting there- thanks for waiting. Sorry this chapter is so long- it just fits together, so I didn't think I could separate it into parts. Next chapter will take us back to chapter one.

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"What have we got?"

"Well, after looking over all the evidence we collected from the crime scene, and the statements we got from her neighbors, added to what we found at the original abduction sight, I think it's safe to say nothing, absolutely nothing."

It was nine days since Don had been found, and Megan, David, and Colby were going over the files that had been written up on his case. Merrick had so enjoyed subtly rubbing their success in the face of Director Donaldson that he had allowed Megan to stay in charge as a gift of gratitude, delegating their team leader to some political task force as a representative of the office; he'd be busy long after Dr. Thompson was brought to trial. _If she is brought to trial_, Megan thought.

The team was just as frustrated as they had been when Don first disappeared. David had overseen the collection of evidence at Dr. Thompson's property, the crime scene crew working diligently to take apart and search thoroughly every inch of her home, land, and car. They had been able to match her car's tires to the ones made in Don's apartment parking lot, but nothing else had been found except some fibers, hair follicles, and a few signs of animal life in her basement; overall, nothing for which they could make a solid case against their suspect.

Interviewing witnesses had not gone any better. Though Bob Anderson had offered to testify, what he had to tell them did not further their case against Thompson. The old man could not state that he had actually seen her harm Don; worse, he would be helping the defense when he testified, as he _had_ seen Don running around free, playing baseball of all things. Nobody else could offer any testimony as none of the other neighbors had been in the position to view Thompson or her property. The team had also failed in finding Don's supposed confidant, the mysterious 'Buddy,' whose name Megan had read over the shoulder of Dr. Wang on the night that Don was admitted. The team was positive that he was a potential witness to the occurrences in Thompson's house, so Colby had spent the better part of a week trying to find him. But no one in Alta Sierra knew someone with either the proper or nick name Buddy, leaving the agents to wonder if Thompson had done something nefarious to him.

Their last avenue had been to identify a motive, but no clear one could be discerned. Thompson had to have some reason for kidnapping and subjugating _Don specifically_, but the team had not been able to find what it could be. They did not live near each other, know the same people or share the same interests, nor had they traveled to the same places during the past year. No link could be found between Don's prior cases and her, or to one of her relatives, of which she had none living. Bob had mentioned he thought she had been pregnant around the same year that Don had been born, but there were no hospital records indicating she had ever given birth, leaving them at a dead end. If there was a common thread between them, they had not found it.

As for Thompson herself, she had yet to say a word. When David had brought her in to be arraigned, a high-class attorney had magically appeared by her side, requesting bail and citing her lack of previous crimes; luckily, they had a sympathetic judge who had refused the bail, stating that crimes committed against officers of the law should always be severely regarded. In response to being taken to jail, David recalled that the woman had just _smiled_, his own ire rising in response. After a week of being locked up, Thompson's attorney had finally consented to her being interviewed, which was the reason the team was going over the evidence in the case once again. They wanted to be prepared when they talked to her.

Megan directed the conversation, "Let's start with the fiber and hair evidence. In the trunk of Thompson's car, we have silk fibers that are ostensibly from a man's suit or dress shirt as well as hair that has been identified as Don's. We suspect this was the method by which he was transported, any problems with that?"

With a marker in his hand, David stood at the white board upon which pictures of the evidence were taped, two lists running down the left hand side: one detailing what the team thought each piece of evidence indicated, and a second detailing what a defense team might say about it.

Colby spoke up, "There was also a laundry bag full of men's clothing and several baseball hats inside the trunk; the defense can claim all fibers and hair were from the clothing in the bag."

"Were there any suits or dress shirts inside the laundry bag?"

"A newly-bought dress shirt was found, and the fibers are the same type as the ones at the bottom of the trunk," David stated.

"Was there anything else in the trunk?"

"Nada," Colby threw out.

"Okay," Megan replied, swinging back and forth in her office chair, "How 'bout the house. We found fibers from the clothing Don had in 'his' dresser"- she made quote signs in the air with her fingers- "and follicles of his hair throughout the house. The different areas include the living room, his bedroom and bathroom, the kitchen, and dining room. We would expect to find this evidence in these rooms, as he supposedly roamed unfettered in the house and in the yard. The only area that raises a red flag is the third bedroom. Hair samples were taken from the plastic mattress of the hospital bed Thompson had there; any concerns?"

David thoughtfully said, "There are two things we have to be concerned about. The first one is, as you said, the third bedroom. What was the reason for Don sleeping in that bed? Was he sleeping in it at the time we found him, or when he was first abducted, or did he alternate his time between the two bedrooms? Our second concern is the spread of the hair and fiber samples, which does indicate that Don had freedom of movement. This is adverse to our contention that he was being kept under duress, as defense counsel can argue that this freedom allowed him to leave at any time he so desired, which he obviously did not want to do, because he stayed. This may tear our case to shreds."

"Mmmmm. I think you are correct, this evidence can topple our case. Okay, the last piece of real physical evidence we have is the few minute spots of rat feces found in the basement and Don's bedroom. Crime scene investigators state that they found no other evidence that Thompson had a rat problem, maybe some field mice, but not rats."

David and Colby looked at each other, then turned to Megan and shrugged.

Megan picked up a yellow envelope from the table in front of her, pulling a large stack of papers from within its interior. They had finally been able to get a court order allowing them to obtain copies of Don's physical and psychological evaluations at the institution. Originally, the judge had refused on the grounds that they had not presented a strong enough reason for violating his civil rights to privacy, as he was the victim, and not the perpetrator, in the prosecutor's case; if Don wanted them to have the evaluations, he could simply give them written permission to have them. This, of course, he had chosen not to do. The request was only granted after Alan's attorney had filed the petition for conservatorship; once the probate court had accessed the records, the judge saw no reason not to allow the criminal courts to have access, too.

Dr. Wang had seemed very cooperative when Megan had shown up early that morning with the order, giving her the envelope as if he had already anticipated her request. Upon returning to the office, she had called Alan Eppes and invited him to view the data, as he would not be privy to the evaluations until he had officially been assigned guardian. When he had arrived, she had taken him into a locked room so they could digest the files in privacy.

Alan had left shaken; he had thanked the agent for sharing the information, but neither one of them had felt better having read them.

Megan now sorted through the stack of these reports, laying them across the table. "I think this would be a good time for you to go over the evaluations Don has received since being admitted to the institution. I obtained these from Dr. Wang this morning."

She left David and Colby to read through the reports, walking to the staff lounge to pour yet another cup of coffee. Megan wanted to be prepared to meet the responses of her colleagues; she was sure they would be confused, disheartened, and extremely angry. These had been her own feelings when she had first read the reports.

The psychological evaluations included one that tested emotional stability and maturity, one that measured intelligence, and one that was a summary behavioral report based on Dr.Wang's and his staff's observations and interactions with Don. The results of each test were not good: his emotional scores all fell within the clinical range; his intelligent quotient, or his ability to learn, had fallen thirty points; and Dr. Wang's summary had stated that Don's role of an independent, adult male had been superceded by the role of a young, dependent male child. His final report included citations of the regressive behaviors of thumb-sucking; bottle-feeding; submissiveness to and dependence upon others, including the inability to make decisions; limited expressive and receptive language skills, which were his abilities to express his thoughts and to understand what was said to him; severe anxiety in reaction to change, which dictated a need for a structured environment; repressed social interaction skills, as he often withdrew from unpleasant and unfamiliar people and situations, his reactions tending to be uncontrolled shivering, crying, and attempts to physically hide; and clinginess to a stuffed toy, a relationship that veered on the edge of delusional, as he occasionally spoke to it as if it were real.

In addition, Don appeared to be suffering from severe memory loss, as he did not exhibit any response to the spoken names of places and people that should have been familiar to him. On the rare occasions he spoke, he would simply ask when 'Mommy' would be coming to get him, which indicated he was trapped within Dr. Thompson's delusion that she was his mother and he was her son. Last, he was exhibiting symptoms of post-traumatic stress syndrome, as he would wake up from nightmares screaming about "teeth" and kicking his legs out from his body. It was often necessary to sedate him in order to prevent further injury to his head.

The physical evaluation was not any better. Don was undernourished; his strong, athletic body could not be sustained on liquid supplements. As Megan had diagnosed, a cat scan had revealed liquid on the brain along with some minor scarring; the doctor had written that it was indicative of some sort of traumatic brain injury, but he had no evidence as to what the cause had been. He also explained why it might never be known; it was usual that the injured individual did not retain memories of the damaging event, so questioning the patient would be to no avail, and the damage was typical of so many different types of injury it would be difficult to narrow it down to one. The doctor stated that, based on observations, Don's coordination skills and ability to control certain muscles both appeared to be adversely affected by the injury. At the bottom of that report was the suggestion of further tests to determine if an operation to drain the skull and scrape the scarring would be necessary, and continued monitoring.

Two other things discovered in the physical were just as disturbing; the first was that there were signs of physical abuse. The doctor had noted bruising on Don's bottom and lower back, including old marks that indicated at some point welts had been raised and the skin broken and healed over; he suggested that his patient had been routinely hit with substantial force over an undetermined period of time. He could not, however, determine with what he had been hit. An MRI had also revealed that capillaries had burst and healed between his outer epidermous layer and his left cheek bone, the damage not unlike what occurred when someone was slapped open-handed across the face.

The second item was the one that Megan had wanted to discuss with her colleagues, as physical evidence had been found in Thompson's house that coincided with it. Walking back to their work space, she gingerly approached David and Colby.

Both men looked up at her with fire in their eyes.

"What the hell could she have done to cause..." Colby moved his hand across the evaluations, "cause all of this?"

Sitting in her seat, Megan shook her head. "I don't know. There are signs of physical abuse, but I don't think simply hitting Don could induce him to behave so... submissively to that woman. It's just not in his personality, because when someone pushes him, he tends to push back, not cave in."

David ran his hand down his face, asking, "What are the chances, I mean realistically, can they help him? On top of whatever psychological mumbo-jumbo she performed on him, there's also this report of brain damage."

"Believe it or not, it is not as severe as it sounds. According to the report, the brain itself is not actually damaged; it is just suffering from the pressure from the liquid surrounding it. There's a good chance that it will either drain on its own or they can operate and drain it that way. In both cases, that release can help Don gain back his memory and, hopefully, the core remains of his personality, which would help him fight the psychological restraints with which Thompson has burdened him. But don't expect all of this to happen overnight. "

Both David and Colby sagged a little in relief; at least their friend's situation was not completely hopeless.

Picking up the physical evaluation, Megan flipped the pages until she found the one she wanted. "Now, there is no way to determine how Don received his traumatic brain injury, so I don't think we can prove that Thompson caused it. Likewise, since we do not know what she used to hit him with, we can not present a weapon to the jury as evidence of the abuse we believed she inflicted. Only one item in this report has physical evidence at the crime scene, and that is the statement by the doctor that Don's legs were covered in recently-acquired scars, ones he thought might have been caused by the puncturing of the skin by tiny, needle-like objects- not dissimilar to the teeth of a rodent. This conjecture makes even more sense if you take into consideration Don's nightmares. "

She stood up and went to the white board. "Here we have a few spots of rat feces in Don's bedroom. How did it get there? We know she only had a few mice in her basement, so why would there be rats in his bedroom?"

David spoke up, "We know she was beating him. Is it possible she used the rats as another form of abuse? I mean, she could have tied him down and let them bite his legs."

All three agents hesitated a moment at the thought of Don helpless while covered in rats.

"It's possible. Only problem is, we have no evidence that he was tied down at any time; his wrists and ankles were free of bruising."

"Hell, we don't even know where the rats came from," Colby said, rubbing the inside corners of his eyes.

David's interest was peaked, "That's an idea. We need to see if she purchased them. If so, then that should be evidence of prior intent to harm."

Megan looked at her watch. "It's thin, but it's the best we have." She stood up, collecting Don's evaluations and placing them back in the envelope, then grabbing the file with Dr. Thompson's personal information. "Right now, we have that interview with Thompson. Let's hope she trips herself up, because otherwise, I doubt we'll be able to keep her much longer; the minuscule remains of rat droppings and a few scars from an undetermined source are not going to be enough to put this woman in jail."

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Melinda waited patiently in the interrogation room while her attorney told her the rules once again. Gordon Fairfield was an older, tiny white-haired man who dressed in off-the-rack suits and bent over an old-fashioned walking stick wherever he went. His scrawny physique and oversized glasses usually gave first time opponents the incorrect perception that he was court-appointed and past his prime. Opponents facing him a second time never made that mistake. Fairfield was slowly reminding Melinda what they had discussed in her cell. She was not to answer any question that he had not previously approved, and she should try not to answer with any more information than was necessary. She should conduct herself in a professional manner, not allowing the interrogator to bait her into responding in a disrespectful and uncontrolled way, which might lead to her revealing things that should remain hidden. If she stuck with the story that they had agreed upon, then it would not be long before the prosecution would have to drop their case and release her. None of these guidelines were new to Melinda, but she listened nevertheless, because the irritating drone of her attorney's voice kept her mind focused on the performance she was about to begin and not on her son.

She had been thinking about Donny the entire time she was in jail. It was difficult for her to sleep at night, wondering if he was still having nightmares and if someone was there to comfort him. During the day, she often cried knowing that she could not feed him or dress him or bathe him, and that strange hands would be performing her motherly duties, but not with the love and care only his Mommy could provide. When she had known they were coming for him, she had taken the time to write instructions on his care, praying that he would be placed in a good private institution instead of the state mental hospital. She had even offered to pay the expenses, giving a list of reputable psych wards in an attempt to prevent his being placed in a high-cost but low-quality one by mistake. Since they had stolen her son, her only comfort had come from her attorney's announcement that Donny had been placed with Dr. Wang. She knew her son was in good hands.

_But his hands aren't as good as Mommy's._

The day they had taken him, she had also tried to prepare _Donny_ for the changes he would be experiencing. Melinda had explained to him that they would both be leaving their home for a little while, but they could not go together. When he began to cry, she had taken him into her arms and comforted him the best she could, feeding him one last time and cuddling him in his bed. Before leaving Donny to wait in his room, she had placed her instructions for his care in his back jeans pocket, telling him to leave them there until he spoke with someone who said he was his doctor. Next, she had stuffed Buddy into a plastic bag, directing her son to keep his toy in his usual hiding place, so that no one would take it away. The last thing she had done was to warn him not to tell anybody Mommy's secrets, or to allow any of the people who took him away to go with him to see the doctor; during the whole time she was talking, she had tugged on the belt around his waist as a reminder of the consequences of doing either one. Kissing him good bye, she had promised that they would be together again soon, to just do whatever he was told like a good little boy, but always with a closed mouth. Though she could only hope her preparations had made things easier on her son, she was not worried in the least that he had followed her directions; after all, he _was_ Mommy's good little boy.

Tired of waiting, Melinda waved Fairfield to silence. In response, he got up and went to the mirrored wall of the interrogation room, mouthing to the unseen observers on the other side that they were ready to begin.

Melinda noted the two people who entered were the ones who were responsible for stealing her baby. A slight spring of anger coiled inside her, but she clamped it down tight. Putting on her best smile, she shook in succession the hands they offered her, waiting compliantly as introductions were made.

"Dr. Thompson, I am Special Agent Reeves, and this is Special Agent Granger. We will be conducting this interview. You may remember us as your arresting officers."

"Yes, I do."

Agent Granger leaned against the far wall of the room while Reeves sat at the table as the main interrogator. She pulled out a file that contained information about Melinda's personal and professional backgrounds.

"Let's go over some basic facts that we have obtained about you during our investigation. Please feel free to correct me when I make a mistake. Your full name is Melinda Ursula Tammery Thompson and you were born on June 30, 1950. You received a bachelor's in 1973, then entered medical school, and finished your internship specializing in psychiatry in 1981 . You had articles printed in every major psychiatric magazine annually for almost twenty years, at various times have sat on the boards of three major universities as well as two hospitals, been given eight- no, nine research grants over the course of your career, and have received numerous professional awards, just too many to list".

"That all seems correct."

"In 1969, you met your future husband, Randal Thoreau Thompson, while attending college. Randal was the only son of Walden Thompson, founder and sole owner of Thompson Pharmaceuticals. In 1970, you were married and remained so until Randal's death in 2004. You were both active in the early seventies within the peace movement in southern California, catching the interest of the F.B.I. in 1970, when you and your husband spent a semester at a commune and he became one of its vocal leaders. Other than your short stint at the commune, between 1970 and 2004 you and your husband lived conservatively in the small house in Alta Sierra, where you remained after his death. You have no brothers or sisters, as you are also an only child. The aunts and uncles of you and your husband are all deceased, and none of them had children, so to all intents and purposes, you are the last in your genealogical line. Other than the house in Alta Sierra, you own no other real estate, but have an extensive portfolio that includes a major interest in Thompson Pharmaceuticals, even though you sold the company last year. There is only one car registered in your name in any of the fifty states, and that is a dark blue 2003 Lincoln Town car. Your current estimated personal worth is a little over forty million dollars."

"Well, that does seem accurate, except my stock broker has estimated my worth closer to the high forties, though I don't think that little mistake is worth worrying about."

"We'll make a note of that. Now that the basics have been covered, let us focus on the reason we are here. You have been charged with the kidnapping and forced detainment of Special Agent Donald Adam Eppes. Since he was found in your possession, I think we can conclude that you know the person of whom I speak, and that you should begin by telling us how he came to be living within your home."

Melinda had been smiling throughout Agent Reeve's litany of her professional and personal life. The petite psychiatrist now shifted her body language by sinking further into her seat and lowering her shoulders, the result an emphasis on her small size that made her seem meek. She also made her smile disappear and replaced it with a concerned, serious expression while she clasped her hands in apparent nervousness and worry in front of her.

"I came to Los Angeles Sunday evening, on"- she named the date- "to do a little shopping. I parked my car and saw a man staggering down the street. Of course, my first thought was that he was drunk, but something about the way he moved made me decide otherwise. When he approached me, I noticed he had a large bruise on the side of his head. He did not know his name when I asked him, and neither one of us could find any identification in his pockets, though we looked thoroughly. So, I took pity on him and decided to take him to the hospital, but he refused to go once I had gotten him into my car and told him where we were going." Melinda looked at her hands and sighed. "This may seem crazy to you, but I have worked with patients with mental illness for over twenty years. I truly believed he had been abandoned by his family to the streets like so many others I have known, and being lonely since my husband died… Well, somehow I found myself driving him home to take care of him."

"_It never crossed your mind to call the police?"_

"Yes, it did," she replied quickly, looking straight at her interrogator. "I planned to call them once he had taken a shower and gotten into some clean clothes, as I still had some of my deceased husband's clothing in my closet. However, when I helped him to get dressed and was able to see him clearly in the bright light of a lamp, I observed something that changed my mind. I noticed he had bruises on his back and posterior, as well as marks upon his face, which clearly indicated that he was being subjected to physical abuse on a regular basis. I began to wonder if the injury to his head had also been the result of abuse. My long experience has taught me that whoever had done either of those things to him was most likely a family member, and that it would be that abuser who would show up at the police station to claim him. I felt that not calling the police was for his own protection."

"_So, your detainment of Agent Eppes was to protect him from what you surmised was physical abuse?"_

"I did not detain Agent Eppes. As my neighbor can testify, he was free to leave or call his family at any time. He simply chose not to do so."

"_Did you at any time discover his identity?"_

"No, he only knew his name as Donny and that is what I called him."

"_There was a missing person campaign that took place throughout Los Angeles County that advertised Agent Eppes' name and face. You never saw any of the ads that were placed on billboards, fliers, or television?"_

"After bringing Donny to my home, I found that he required full-time care; as a result, I did not have the time to drive back to Los Angeles at any point in the last two months. I do not tend to watch much television nor do I recall seeing any fliers in Alta Sierra, where I was doing all of my shopping."

"_Do you recall telling your neighbor, Bob Anderson, that Agent Eppes was your son?"_

"Yes. It may not seem important to someone young like yourself, but I did not want my neighbors to think I had taken in a lover, so that explanation seemed the best way to keep rumors at bay."

"_Your tire prints were found in the parking lot of the apartment in which Agent Eppes resided. Can you explain what you were doing there?"_

"I do not know where Donny lives. However, I did get a flat tire a few months ago, and had to pull into a strange parking lot to change it. This may have, coincidentally, been the place that you are talking about."

"_Dr. Thompson, Agent Eppes received a physical in which the examiner noted that his legs were covered in scars. He indicates that they might have been caused by having been repeatedly bitten by a rodent, such as a rat. Do you know how this may have occurred?"_

"It was a mistake on my part. I had some lab rats in my basement, all in cages, that I had forgotten about once I started caring for Donny." She lowered her head and allowed tears to fall from her eyes, her attorney thoughtfully handing her a handkerchief to dab at her face. "I went to the grocery store and, as usual, left Donny free to roam the house. He decided to investigate the basement and inadvertently released them from their cages. Luckily, I heard his screams when I entered the front door. It was just horrible! All those rats were nipping at his legs while he was helpless to defend himself. I was just barely able to pull him away from them. I made him lie down on my dead husband's hospital bed so that I could tend to his wounds. Afterwards, I promise you that I personally saw to it that every last one of those creatures was laid to rest. I can not tell you how often I have berated myself for leaving Donny alone for so long."

"_That might explain the physical scars on Agent Eppes' body. However, can you tell us how he came to take on the behaviors of an infant and young child while under your care, when as late as Friday"- she named the date- "he had been seen at work exhibiting the behaviors of a typical adult male?"_

"I'm not sure I can give an explanation for all of his behaviors, as some of them he _did_ exhibit when he first came to me. Friday was two days before I even found him. Now, I admit to the bottle-feeding, but it was my last resort after I discovered Donny could neither chew solid food nor could he hold a can of supplement in his hand. I was really desperate to get some kind of nourishment in him because he had apparently not eaten for days. For some reason, he enjoyed the bottles and I kept feeding them to him out of convenience."

"_What about the thumb-sucking?"_

"That was a behavior that came with him."

"_Why do you think he suddenly lacks the ability to make decisions or express himself?"_

"I would suppose that might have to do with his head injury."

"_If you knew he had a head injury, why didn't you take him to a doctor?"_

"I offered to take him time and again, but he did not want to go. If it was a severe injury, I was not aware of that."

"_Why is he displaying the symptoms of fear and anxiety?"_

"Again, it might be the result of the head injury, or being placed in an institution. He never seemed anxious or fearful when he was with me."

"_Why was his bedroom decorated like a child's room?"_

"That is how Donny wanted it to look. Many grown men like baseball and cartoons, so it never crossed my mind that his room looked like it belonged to a child."

"_How about his attachment to his stuffed rabbit, did that come with him, too?"_

"No, I bought Buddy for him as a present. He seemed to need something to hold in order to help with the nightmares I observed him having at night."

"_Did you say 'Buddy'- the name of the stuffed rabbit is Buddy?"_

"Well, yes, of course. Donny chose his name all by himself. I don't know what Agent Granger finds so funny about it."

Melinda shot him an angry look, but he did not seem to be able to regain his composure and quickly left the room. She looked back at Agent Reeves, who was shaking her head as if she had been defeated in some manner.

"_So, you deny that you kidnapped and detained Agent Eppes against his will?"_

"Yes."

"_You also deny that you had anything to do with the physical injuries that have been observed on the person of Agent Eppes?"_

"Yes."

"_Lastly, you deny that, other than the necessity of bottle-feeding, that you had anything to do with the psychological problems that Agent Eppes is now experiencing?"_

"Yes."

"_This ends our interview. An officer will be in shortly to take you back to your cell."_

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Colby sat quietly in the observation room so as not to interrupt Megan's chastisement of his unprofessional behavior, though he did not hesitate to speak up in his own defense when she finished.

"I'm sorry, Megan, but it's been a stressful two months, and an especially exasperating week. You don't know how many doors I knocked on, or how many people I stopped in the street in Alta Sierra, all the time asking them about this mysterious person named 'Buddy.' And the whole time he was right there in the institute with Don. It was just too much to take."

Megan understood that Colby's brief outburst of laughter had been a release of tension; she had had to bite her own tongue to prevent from doing the same. Still, they were professionals, and others who were not familiar with the stresses they experienced on a daily basis might mistake his response as an example of him not taking his job seriously. The opposite was actually true; it was because he was so resolute in performing his job that when an outlet for release presented itself, he was forced to take it. Especially if the outlet was the discovery that the witness you had spent a week looking for was unable to talk because he was a toy stuffed bunny.

"I understand more than you think, Colby. You need to practice some technique that can help you keep your emotions under control when something surprising occurs during an interrogation. Speaking of which, I do not think Nadine is going to be too thrilled with Thompson's answers. I think it likely her story will stand up before a jury."

"I don't like it," David responded, "but I have to agree. She had a good, solid answer for every question we asked. She was even able to explain away how he got those rat bites on his legs and the tire tracks we found at his apartment complex; I know we don't believe her, but it is more than enough for reasonable doubt."

Megan gathered up the notes she had written during the interrogation and stuck a copy of its recording into her purse, along with a summary report of the little evidence they had been able to collect. "I'm going to take what we have to Nadine. Let's hope we're wrong. Otherwise, they'll have to drop the charges against Thompson and she could be back on the street as early as tomorrow."


	19. How We Prepared for You

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. Any character appearing in this story is fictional and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

Author's note: I made changes to Melinda's educational background in Ch. 18, as well as added an MRI, nothing major but thanks for the heads up. The therapy and all in this chapter are from research. Since all TBI is individually treated, I took the liberty of picking what worked for the story. We are coming full circle to chapter one. Finally.

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Charlie was busy paying for another ten pizzas, the sound of loud music at his back preventing him from hearing the total cost. Handing the guy a couple hundred dollar bills, he grabbed the food and walked away from the stunned young man, who quickly pocketed the money and ran for his delivery car. Charlie made his way to the nearest table, weaving in-between the gyrating bodies of former task force workers, all who were gleefully dancing and eating their way through the late afternoon celebration party at the now-defunct headquarters. All the desks and chairs were shoved up against the walls, while the computers, fax and copy machines were shut down. Above the large makeshift dance floor, bright balloons clung to the ceiling, framing a red and blue banner that cheered "Congratulations! Jimmy and Bob". Back in the kitchen, Larry was making another batch of homemade ice cream, keeping up a continuous chat with Bob, with whom he was politely debating the benefits of their individual styles of goggles.

After spreading out the pizzas, Charlie went to the kitchen, looking for Jimmy. He saw him bent down near the sink, emptying a bag of ice into a large plastic tub over two cases of soda pop. When Jimmy straightened up and tossed the bag aside, Charlie quietly slid up to him, placed an arm affectionately around his shoulders, and then slipped a plain white business envelope discreetly into the other's front shirt pocket. His young student immediately realized what he had been given and pulled it out, shoving it back at him.

"You know I can't take this, Professor Eppes, not after everything that you did for me."

Once Charlie confirmed with Megan that it was Bob and Jimmy who had been responsible for identifying Don, he knew that he would have a problem getting either one of them to accept the reward money. He decided he would have to make it so they could not refuse it. So, first he bought a cashier's check in the amount of two hundred thousand dollars and wrote it out to Jimmy Nicholson; he figured Bob would be less reluctant to refuse the money if he saw that it was in his grandson's name. Next, he avoided talking about the reward, instead thanking Bob and Jimmy, and then telling them he would like to throw them a little party to express to them and the other task force workers his gratitude for all their hard work. The last part was to do what he had just done, which was to slip the money to Jimmy when he and his grandfather were off guard. It had almost worked.

Bob stepped away from Larry and stood supportively behind his grandson. "Me and Jimmy already discussed this. There is no way either one of us is accepting that reward, now that I know how you saved him from losing his college money."

Charlie refused to give in, tossing the envelope back to Jimmy, who reflexively caught it. "It's a cashier's check written in Jimmy's name, so I can't take it back. The only one who can cash it is him." He smiled when he saw the twin frowns that grew on the faces of the men, each one of them chewing his lower lip thoughtfully. Though over sixty years separated the two, it was obvious from their facial and body expressions that they were related. "Look, I have to pay you the reward, otherwise I wouldn't be a man of my word, and I would be dishonoring the Eppes' name or something like that. If you don't feel good about using the money, you can always donate it to a charity. In any case, I won't take it back."

Bob was the first one to cave. "Jimmy, I think the professor is right. We can donate most of that money to charity, and you can still keep some back in case an emergency comes up, like you forget to file your grant papers again." When his grandson started to protest, Bob cut him off. "There is no use in arguing with a stubborn man, and right now you've got two of them to contend with- both me and your professor. I'm only asking that you keep the check for now and think about what we've said." Jimmy relented, folding the envelope into his back pocket, and then he and Bob each grabbed a handle on the tub of soda and ice, taking it out to the still-active party.

Relieved, Charlie sat down near Larry, dipping his finger in a bowl of melting ice cream and bringing a small dab of gooey sweetness to his lips. His miraculously turned-on-and- charged cell phone began to twitter as he licked the tip of his finger. Seeing the number belonged to his dad, he excitedly clicked the phone open.

Charlie had chosen to have the party this day because it had been exactly one week since he and his father had visited Harvey Johnson. Trusting their attorney, Charlie thought the celebration would serve a twofold purpose; first, to thank his workers, as well as Jimmy and Bob, for everything they had done concerning Don, and second, to give himself a private jubilation for when he would receive the news that his dad had been granted conservatorship of his brother. Only, it was after five o'clock and he was just now hearing from his father.

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Alan was surprised but pleased to hear his youngest son answer the phone.

"Did he do it? Are you his conservator?"

"Yes, Charlie. We just left the court house. I am officially conservator and I have permission to make all decisions regarding his mental and physical health, and his financial affairs."

"How did he do it? He said the courts would only grant you an emergency hearing if it was a matter of life and death?"

"No, specifically there had to be a life and death medical decision to be made. Wang wrote a letter about something concerning brain surgery for Don and the success of the operation determining whether he would live or die. He swore that Don was too mentally incapacitated to make the decision for himself. Johnson did some kind of twisting of the facts and Wang's words so I could be made conservator. Our attorney is pretty sneaky, Charlie. He says it's the way he always gets emergency conservators put into place."

"So, when do we get to see Don?"

Alan hated what he was about to do to Charlie, but he felt he had no choice. He had read all the psychological and physical reports that had been performed on Donny; he had also talked to Dr. Wang before calling his son, having faxed the doctor a copy of his guardianship papers from an office in the courthouse. Alan knew that Donny was not in the mental condition that his brother would expect him to be in. Even though Charlie had heard Bob's description of 'special', Alan did not think he had actually accepted what the old man had said, as Charlie had been talking about nothing else for the last week except having a homecoming dinner for Don, and how it would be great to catch up, and he was going to take a leave of absence at work so they could spend time relaxing together, doing things like playing baseball and Frisbee golf. Naively, Charlie thought simply getting his brother back home would erase any problems that he might have picked up over the past two months.

In addition, Alan was concerned about how his eldest son would feel when he started regaining his memory. He was certain Donny would feel ashamed and embarrassed that he had been manipulated and controlled by Dr. Thompson, and that these feelings would be worse if he knew his brother had witnessed his submissive behavior. Dr. Wang had assured him that the liquid on Donny's brain was only temporary, and that, with help, it might drain rather quickly. Alan hoped that Charlie would not have to see his brother until he was completely healed both mentally and physically; he ignored the fact that he himself was not accepting everything that was being told to him, as Dr. Wang had also said it might take months for Donny to be completely rehabilitated. In consideration of Donny's relationship with his brother, Alan decided it would be best if he went to see him alone, even though it would break Charlie's heart.

"I am on my way there now. I have to get there before eight o'clock or I won't be able to speak to him."

"Give me the address and I'll meet you there."

"Charlie, I can't. I'm sorry, but I need to see Donny alone."

Alan tried to ignore the whining sound that came through his phone. "But I miss Don, and _I_ need to see him. It's not fair, I've worked harder than anyone, and now _you're keeping_ him from me."

"I know, Charlie, lord knows Don would still be missing if it hadn't been for you. But the doctor doesn't think he should have any unnecessary visitors at this time, so I have to base my decisions on what is best for your brother, no matter how much it may hurt you. Please understand."

Alan wasn't certain, but he thought what he heard through his earpiece was the exact sound a cell phone would make if it were slammed against a wall.

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"_What the hell did that bitch do to you?"_ kept running through Alan's head as he stood next to Donny's bed. He had been disappointed when he was delayed in traffic and arrived after his son's scheduled bedtime, but at least Dr. Wang was allowing him to see and touch Donny for himself. After tucking the blankets lovingly about his son, Alan used the meager glow of the bunny nightlight to take in the room in which he had been staying. Hospital bed, nightstand, and one arm chair comprised the furniture, while a door set in the left-hand wall led to a full bathroom with a large whirl-pool tub. In the back wall of the room, another door was opened into a small recreation room. Alan went inside and turned on the light, stepping across to the toy box set in the corner. He opened the lid and took stock of the toys inside- large cars and trucks, oversized building blocks and legos, some action figures along with a complete train set that had yet to be taken out of its box.

"Mr. Eppes," Dr. Wang coughed from the doorway behind him.

Alan shut the lid and, after flicking off the light, left the room. The doctor had walked ahead, and now beckoned him from the hallway, but his need to stay near his son kept him locked in place. Wang projected a demanding whisper across the room to him, "Really, Mr. Eppes, we need to talk. You can come back here and spend the night with your son. While we're at my office, they will set up a cot for you."

With the promise of returning to his son tucked into his heart, Alan gave Donny a slight kiss on the cheek and followed the doctor to his office.

Wang sat behind his desk, pulling several files from his cabinet and placing them open in front of him. "I know you have read both Donny's mental and physical evaluations, and I want to assure you again that his prognoses are good. It is now important that we decide on a plan of action in order to begin treatment." Alan nodded his head in agreement; he was emotionally and physically exhausted from the court proceedings that day, as well as from the relief of seeing and feeling his son. "Before we begin making those plans, I must address an issue that tends to be delicate, but nevertheless it must be discussed. Your son has government insurance, which will only cover the minimum costs in treatment. Our facility does not offer the minimum type of treatment, so our prices tend to be much higher. My superiors require that all bills are paid before admittance; I waved that requirement because I believed your son needed to be placed immediately upon his arrival here. Now, however, I need to tell you the costs that you must personally cover as co-payment, for I believe that will be a factor in our determination in how to proceed." Wang gave Alan a ball-park figure for his son's continued care at the institution.

"Wow. I expected it to be expensive, but not that much. Is that monthly or weekly?"

"Ahem, uh, that is daily."

Alan was suddenly alert, his exhaustion slipping away as he began to do the math in his head. He still had some money left from the sale of his business, but the time Donny had already spent at the institution would be taking a big chunk out of that, not to mention what he had spent to obtain guardianship. Charlie might be able to contribute, but the money from his consulting jobs had been spent on Don's ad campaign and the reward he had given out. At the prices that Wang had quoted, he figured Don could stay at the most a few more days.

"I can write you a check for the time Don has been here, and for the cost of three more days' stay. Beyond that, my family just can't afford to keep him here any longer."

"That is understandable Mr. Eppes, though it would be preferable if he could stay here during the course of his recovery."

"Dr. Wang, I can not express to you how grateful I am for the treatment you have given Donny. I don't know how well he would be doing if he had been taken to the state hospital. But we just do not have the funds; isn't it possible for me to take care of my son at home, while you continue to treat him as an outpatient?"

"I do not usually see patients outside of my facility. However, Donny's case interests me, so I am willing to set up a cost and payment plan that you can afford; in exchange, I would ask for your consent to my publishing the results of his treatment in a professional magazine, your son's identity remaining anonymous, of course."

"Let me think that over."

"Very well, then, please let me know as soon as possible. Other than the physical and psychological monitoring we are conducting, most of the care we have given for Donny _can_ be provided at home. After all, before he came to us, to all appearances he was functioning within his limited capacity in the environment of Dr. Thompson's home. As for treatment, I am of the belief that most of Donny's physiological problems stem from the excess intracranial fluid that is forcing pressure on his brain. We could drain this fluid through a shunt in his head, which would run underneath his skin to drain into another part of his body. There, the body would simply absorb the liquid. The second method is what I prefer, that is the use of a diuretic. The liquid settled on his brain is cerebrospinal fluid, which is continually made and drained or reabsorbed by the brain. The diuretic will limit the production of the fluid, and the brain will absorb the excess liquid. However, in order for this to be successful, Donny would also need to limit his intake of liquids..."

"And Donny is currently on a liquid diet," Alan finished for the doctor.

"Yes, the bottles are a problem. If not for that diet, who knows, the liquid might have been absorbed into the brain by now. Donny needs to get back on solid food for nutritional purposes, likewise. So, the bottles must go."

"You will not receive any opposition from me."

"It is not your opposition that I am concerned about. Donny is firmly set into the routine that Dr. Thompson set up for him; he becomes overly emotional when we have tried to deviate from it in the least. He cries, pouts, hides, and visibly shakes. When he first came here, we thought he was very obedient to the nurses. Through the observations of staff, we have come to the conclusion that he is actually being very obedient to the dictates of Dr. Thompson; to all other directions, he tends to be oppositional. For this reason, we have continued his acquired daily routine, but it will be up to you to teach him to accept modification of it. This task will become easier if the reduced pressure on his brain allows him to regain his fine motor skills, coordination, and memory as I predict. As he sees he can perform more tasks, he will want to be and will become more independent. I must emphasize, Mr. Eppes, that this will be a full-time job. You are not going to be able to do this by yourself. Are there not other family members or friends upon whom you can rely?"

Alan thought about Charlie. He had been resolute in not wanting him to see his brother in his current condition, but if Donny was to receive care at home it could not be avoided. Alan knew he would need to prepare Charlie by giving him the reports he had received about his brother; maybe then he would understand just how difficult Donny's condition was.

"I have a younger son, as well as some friends of Donny who would probably offer to help."

"Fine. Now, as for other treatment, I think Donny should work with an occupational therapist twice a week to work on his fine motor skills; one of those days will be aquatic therapy to increase his muscle movement as well as his strength and coordination. He will also need to see a speech/language pathologist to increase his ability to express himself and, most importantly, to chew and swallow. I will set the initial appointments for you, and then you can proceed from there."

Alan nodded his head in accession.

"I believe that most of Donny's current behavior is not a result of the pressure on his brain. I believe it is psychological, that Dr. Thompson took advantage of his lack of memories and replaced them with her own. As Donny begins to regain his memory, we can assume there will be conflict between his prior knowledge of self and his current beliefs about who he is; the anxiety we see him exhibiting may actually be a symptom of that process already occurring, and his resistance to that change. We believe that if he receives proper emotional support in a structured environment, he will be able to work through that conflict and the man he once was will fight and gain control of his heart, body, and mind. As these changes will occur, we will need to monitor both his physiological and psychological progress; those appointments you can make at my front desk. I anticipate that he will need psychotherapy to come to grips with what was done to him, but we will see to that at a later date."

Dr. Wang opened a file and pulled out some papers, handing them to Alan.

"That is Donny's current schedule. Over the next few days, you can spend your time here practicing it while rebuilding a relationship with your son. It will not be the one you had before his current condition, but he does need to accept that you will be his primary caretaker in order for him to have a successful transition from the institution. When you take him home, it would be best to follow his routine for the remainder of the week. By Monday, however, you will need to start him on soft, solid food and toss the bottles. He will also begin the diuretic at that time, and I will prescribe him pain medication, as he tends to have headaches. Any other changes will either occur naturally or by following the suggestions of his therapists. Do you have questions for me at this time?"

"What about this rabbit, Buddy? Should I toss him, too?"

"From careful questioning, we have determined that Donny does not suffer from the delusion that the rabbit is real. It is apparent that he was isolated while with Dr. Thompson and developed the habit of talking to the toy out of the desperate need to be social. As he has had more interaction with my staff, his tendency to talk to the rabbit has decreased. He also seems to use the rabbit as some sort of protection, but from what we have not been able to determine; it might simply be protection from change, as clinging to the toy seems to help him to adjust to new situations and environments. In addition, Donny continues to have nightmares and the presence of the toy tends to calm him down. This is important, as he kicks out his feet and throws his head back in response to whatever he is dreaming, which risks further injury to his head. I can prescribe a sedative, but even this does not always prevent the flailing of his limbs. Do not dispose of the rabbit; as with many of the behavioral changes he needs to make, he will need to do that on his own and in his own time."

Dr. Wang told Alan it would be best if he went home and came back with the required necessities for staying at the institution for three days. During his stay, someone would need to take the time to set up a room at his home with Donny's bedding and clothing. A nurse would visit the following day and see if any other changes needed to be made to his environment.

Thanking the doctor once again, Alan went home to pack an overnight bag and to talk to his youngest son.

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When Alan entered his front door, he was greeted by a sullen and angry Charlie, who was sitting on the bottom of the stairs, effectively preventing anyone from ascending. He had his arms crossed, his back stiff and gave his father a look of determination.

"I am going to see Don," were the first words out of his mouth.

"Just a few more days Charlie."

"No, I want to see him today. I am not going to change my mind. If I have to break into that place I am going to see him."

Alan squeezed in next to his son, pressing their shoulders together as he sat. He clasped his hands in front of him and stared at the floor.

"Charlie, Don is not well. He really needs to stay at the institute, but it is too expensive. I could look for another place, but the doctor says we can take care of him at home and receive outpatient services, so that is what I have decided to do. But it will take both of us working full-time for several weeks or several months or maybe a year; the doctor seems to think it will be the lesser of the time, but we need to be prepared. I think you should take whatever time the university allows you, but not to catch up with Don or spend time relaxing. Your brother needs you to help take care of him, and I need you for emotional strength."

Alan wrapped an arm around Charlie and leaned into him. "If you want your brother to come home, you need to allow me to work with him the next three days- alone. A nurse is going to come by tomorrow with some things for Donny's room, and she'll be making some suggestions about changes we need to make. I need you to be here to get the house ready for Donny. Three more days, that's all I'm asking you. Please."

Charlie still had his arms crossed, but with his shoulders hunched and his back curved; they had taken on a protective stance rather than a demanding one. Swallowing, he told his dad, "Okay. I'll wait three days, but not one day- no, not one minute past. I can do this, for Don." He looked pleadingly at his father, "But Larry wants to see him, too. I'm sure Megan, David, and Colby are also wondering how he's doing. If he's well enough to come home, can't they see him? Or at least Larry; it would feel good to be around the table like a family again."

"I think it would be better if Don just stayed in his room for awhile, until he gets better."

"You mean locked up like Dr. Thompson had him?"

Alan was stung by Charlie's words, because he hadn't thought about it that way. He _had _planned on keeping Don in his room full time, only bringing him out for his therapy and doctor appointments. For some reason, he felt that keeping him out of sight would protect him, but that is what Dr. Thompson had done, and it hadn't protected him-Donald Eppes- but it had protected the image she had made him into, keeping it firmly in place. Changing his mind, Alan smiled and gave Charlie his permission for a 'celebration' dinner to welcome home Don. "But only you, me and Larry, his other friends can see him later. Nothing elaborate, just dinner. We gotta eat anyway, right?"

"Thanks, I just want my family back, and I think Don does, too."

Alan's smile faltered. _You need to read those reports, Charlie, because the family Don might want does not necessarily include you and me. _


	20. How He Forced You to Bond

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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Donny opened his eyes, grabbed Buddy and was half-way out of his bed when he realized there was a strange noise coming from behind him. Sitting still on the edge, he held tight to the rabbit and slowly turned around. A small cot was set up on the right side of the room, a large form under the blankets rising and falling to the deep rhythm of snoring that filled the air. Donny leaned over his own bed, trying to see the amazing mouth that could expel such a loud, booming noise, but his view was blocked by the pillow the person had folded up over the top half of his face, the lower half lost behind a shoulder. He faced the bathroom again, his body starting its typical shiver as he stuck his thumb fearfully in his mouth. Donny wanted to hide under the covers, but the need to use the restroom overcame him and he fled there for safety instead.

When he finished, he gradually opened the bathroom door, listening for snoring; it was still there alright. He hesitated, frightened of the new presence in his room, but despite those fears he decided to conduct an investigation, because not knowing who was on the cot caused him more anxiety than if there actually were someone bad lying there. Donny lowered himself to his hands and knees, stuck Buddy's left ear in his mouth and bravely crawled along the floor past his bed, sticking his head around its end to peek at the cot. He was not sure who was under the blankets, but he knew that the people here would not let anything bad happen to him; still, his fear steadily rose as he crawled to the top end of the cot.

Donny peered at the gaping hole in the man's head as he bent over his shoulder, no more than two inches away from his face, wondering how so much sound could come out of such a little space. Swinging from Donny's mouth as he moved to get a better view, Buddy's foot brushed the man's mouth and barely touched the end of his nose, making it twitch until he sneezed- his mouth closed spasmodically, sucking in the rabbit's foot and making him choke. He bolted up, spitting out the gagging softness and sputtering small bits of yarn-like fur, his eyes snapping open. Startled, Donny fell back on his haunches and just sat frozen, the man blinking until he was fully awake, smiling when he saw him on the floor and then swinging his legs out of bed as he began stretching.

"Good morning, Donny. It is good to finally see you."

Pressing up against his bed, Donny gaped at the man, tears flowing down his face as he trembled uncontrollably. Alan tried to talk quietly to his son, "It's okay, Donny, I'm not going to hurt you. Don't be afraid. Everything's alright," resisting the urge to run after him when he scrambled on all fours to hide in the bathroom

Alan had been warned not to tell his son he was his father. This had upset him, but he understood that the new information might confuse Donny because he only remembered Dr. Thompson as Mommy and thought he had no other family members. Alan had also been warned not to discuss his late wife, or to say any negative words about 'Mommy', as Donny had a strong emotional attachment to Thompson, and any verbal attack on her would only interfere with Alan's attempt to gain his son's trust. It hurt, though, not to be able to tell him he did not need to rely on a fake mother's love, because his father was there to give him the real thing. Also painful was how Donny was trying to escape him, as if he was the cause of everything of which he was afraid.

Eventually, Alan gave up trying to communicate with his son, the day nurse coming in, carrying a small cooler bag. He reached next to his cot, grabbing his night bag to take advantage of the facilities as soon as his son exited them. Debra called to Donny, his appearance hesitant until she pulled out the first bottle, then he ignored his father and climbed back into bed, the satisfaction of his hunger his only concern. Alan went into the bathroom, taking a quick shower and shave, getting dressed as quick as he could. Having only gotten a few hours sleep, Alan had not been able to wake up before his son, but planned to do so the next two days; they had too little time to form even a tentative bond for him to waste any of it with oversleeping.

After checking the schedule Wang had given him, Alan turned on the water to start filling the tub and poured in a generous amount of liquid bubbles, exiting in time to see Donny finishing his last bottle. Calling him over, Debra introduced him as "a very nice man named Alan who is going to help take care of you" and then indicated that he should take over for her, as she moved aside to give him room to stand next to the bed. Donny's eyes went wide and he began to whimper, but his nurse shushed him quiet and held the bottle at its end until Alan grasped it around the middle, her hand skillfully letting go. Time whisked back thirty-five years and Alan was confronted by the image of his baby boy, quietly feeding in his arms. Tears came to his eyes and he desperately wanted to throw himself at his son, cradle his body in a tight embrace while covering him in kisses and telling him over and over again how much he loved him, really loved him; but he bit his lip and tightly wound up his emotions, concentrating on making a connection with his son's eyes so he could pierce into his soul and find any remnant of the bond they once shared. Donny refused to look at him, though, first staring at Debra and then the ceiling, defeating all of Alan's attempts to wordlessly reach him.

While Alan finished feeding Donny, Debra checked his bath water and placed three toy boats on top. She then went to walk her patient to the tub, wordlessly indicating to Alan to follow, and then showing him how to help his son get undressed without doing all the work for him.

"Now, put your arm under him like this, and let him lean his weight on you just so; this allows you to have a firm grip and makes it easier to slide him in. The rehab nurse visiting your house today will be suggesting bars in the bathroom, but until Donny has a firm grip, you will need to continue helping him in. And at no point leave him alone. As you probably know, bathrooms are terribly famous for being scenes of accidents."

She handed Alan a wash cloth while he climbed down to his knees with a slight groan.

"I am getting just a little too old for this. I think I'll assign his younger brother this job."

Donny looked over at Alan curiously. _His younger brother? He didn't have any brothers- only Mommy._ Squinting at the man, a stirring of familiarity began to be raised, some faint, fuzzy scene scrabbling up from the dark pit in his mind; he tried to clear the ragged edges away to be left with a clear picture, but the awareness of his Mommy suddenly appeared, throwing a shadow over his thoughts like a sack and carrying them dreamily away. When Alan tried to wash him, Donny folded his arms across his chest, scowling at his father, his confusion at what the man had said making him angry and defiant. _I have no younger brother and I want you to go away. _

Debra would have none of his oppositional behavior. Using one of the two phrases she had learned got an immediate response from her patient, she told him, "_Be a good boy,_ _Donny_, and let Alan take care of you." The other phrase was its opposite, "_Don't be a bad_ _boy_, _Donny_" both of which she would have to teach his father. Reluctantly, he put down his arms and let Alan bathe him, the entire time half-heartedly playing with his boats. Debra sighed, knowing he could pout all day when they strayed even a little bit from his routine, but it couldn't be helped; he had to come to accept his father and adjust to change. She knew the latter would not be accomplished in just three days, but at the least he should learn to allow his father to care for him, whether he liked it or not. Anything beyond that would no longer be her concern.

Surprised that his son showed no signs of embarrassment, Alan thoroughly washed and dried him. He had little awkward feelings himself as his view of Donny had shifted to the one he had of him as a child; taking care of him was like falling into an old habit- an extremely outdated habit, but one to which he had been well-accustomed at one time. Except for the bottle-feeding and when he administered the baby powder, as they were strange things to do in regards to a grown man. Debra showed him that he needed to help Donny with his shirt, jeans, socks, and shoes, but not his boxers.

After the bath, both the nurse and Alan thought they were seeing progress, as Donny was being compliant in allowing his father to do everything else for him, even handing his father his brush so he could tenderly fix his hair, careful of his temples. When Alan asked him simple questions, he gave his father, short, shy answers while he sat comfortably between his knees, even smiling for a moment when showing off Buddy. Debra noticed that he had stopped sulking and she thought things might go well after all. Until they were entering the recreation room, and she remembered to put on his belt; by the time Alan and Donny had sat on the couch, her patient was pouting again and being stubbornly defiant, refusing to play with or look at his father. Debra could not understand why the recreation room had suddenly upset him.

Donny had felt good after the bath, enjoying how gentle Alan's hands were when touching him, and relinquishing his anger to the inviting smile that the man sported. He was not aware that a portion of his mind had been roused by the familiarity of his father's voice, and touch, and smell, naturally releasing his anxiety and permitting him to swiftly attach to him. Then the belt coiled around him and reminded Donny of what happened to little boys who talked to strangers, and silently communicated to him that Alan was a stranger. He became angry at himself for being bad and forgetting what Mommy had warned him, and for forgetting the teeth that had emphasized that what she said was true. Rubbing the thick leather that constricted his ability to move beyond Melinda's delusion, Donny remembered what he needed to do to be good, and spending time talking and playing with Alan was not one of them. Mommy had promised she would come back to get him, and he believed her; she was supposed to take care of him, not Alan, and nothing either Debra or Alan said would change that. He kept that attitude for most of the next two days, allowing his father to tend to his needs only when he was directed to do so but absolutely refusing to talk or play with him, or to offer another smile.

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It was late afternoon, the last day that Donny would be in the institution. He and Alan were sitting on the couch in the recreation room, one at either end. Cartoons were playing on the television while the elder gentleman busied himself fiddling with the locomotive of the train set, having taken it from its box in an attempt to regain his son's interest; thus far, it was not working. Stubbornly ignoring him, Donny sat fidgeting on the couch, trying to focus on the action colorfully splashing across the television, but despite himself his mind and emotions were continually drawn to the man who sat across from him. He was sad that he could not play with Alan, and that he talked so nicely to him but he could not respond. Whenever he felt he would falter in being good, Donny rubbed his thumb across his belt and kept his desires in check.

Alan knew that Dr. Wang was not completely satisfied with their progress, having talked to him earlier in the day. The doctor was concerned that Donny had yet to accept his father as caretaker, continuously having to be told to allow Alan to see to his needs by Debra in the day and other staff at night. Alan was not satisfied _at all_. Whenever he spoke to his son, the conversation was one-sided and ended up with him getting a perfect view of his back. While feeding him, closed eyes shut him out. Most of the day they spent in the recreation room together, but Donny was so unresponsive to him that he felt worse than if he had been alone.

Alan believed the main blockage between them was that he had not told him he was his father; he believed it might be difficult for Donny at first, but that in the long run it would be an effective and quick way for them to bond. But until he had formed some kind of acceptable link to Donny, the doctor thought it might be too much of an emotional upheaval to tell his son the news. Alan was becoming more frustrated and angry every minute he spent getting rejected by his son, his need to tell him who he was becoming overwhelming, and he found himself trying hard to keep himself under control.

"Look, Donny," he said, moving closer to him across the couch. "Now, this is a good locomotive engine, classical really. See this tells you its engine number, and look at the details they included in this compartment here." Donny ignored the proffered toy, staring at the television beyond his father's hands, while his thumb was resting under the side of his belt. Alan set the train down on the floor and then momentarily compressed his hands against his face. Nudging closer on the couch, he reached out to run a hand through his son's hair as he had so often done in the past, but Donny twisted his head out from under his father's caress, saying the first word he'd said to him in two days-

"Don't."

Having elicited some verbal activity, Alan tried to stroke Donny's head again, receiving the same response, but in a harder, manlier voice tone-

"Don't."

Alan would not allow his firstborn to refuse him what he thought was his parental right- the right to provide the simple but loving touch. When he deliberately stretched his hand out once again, Donny straightened to glare at his father while he shrugged away the other man's hand with his own-

"Don't! Only Mommy," he stated emphatically.

It was too much for Alan to endure, being told that a strange madwoman could touch and hold his son while he, his father, was brushed aside. His emotions brimming over at last, he clamped Donny's hand down at his side and bowed into him, regretting every last word he said even as they thundered from his mouth.

"Mommy's gone and she's not coming back- _not now, not ever_! I'm your daddy and you're going to come live with me! I'm going to take care of you and so is your brother!"

Donny looked at his father aghast, turmoil brewing inside his mind as conflict rose and fell along his racing pulse. His outer body sat petrified but inside his emotions and comprehension clambered out of control, spinning around and making him dizzy; in the space of minutes he surrendered to emotional fatigue, stimulated memories swaying him to believe in his heart that every word he had heard was true.

Crying tears of regret and relief from having finally told his son the truth, Alan slipped his arms around Donny's now-pliable form, drawing his head to his chest when he met no opposition, rocking him softly in his arms, apologizing profusely for all that he had said, for yelling at him and for not being there for him when he had needed him most. At last, Alan could run his fingers through his son's hair, his hands moving relentlessly, rubbing his back and arms and side as he poured kisses on his face, telling him over and over how much he loved him and would take care of him.

But the tears that poured down Donny's face were ones of misery, his father's words about Mommy tearing him apart.

_It doesn't matter,_ he cried, hiding his face in the folds of his father's shirt, _when you see how worthless and bad I am, you won't want me, either._


	21. What I Was Able To See

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or any character therein. Any character appearing in this story is fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

Author's note: I hope I did better this time. Thanks for the reviews and help.And I promise to not get upset by reviews- if you promise to not get upset if I rewrite a chapter or make corrections. : ) First section the same- second part different. Oh, and a very nice lady from a traumatic brain injury place explained to me the therapies our favorite agent will need to help regain his skills and memories- after calling places for a week, she was the only person to call back- what a sweet person.

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The sun was working hard to blister the day, the heat thickly swirling. Outside the courthouse, Megan wiped the moisture from her eyes as she waited impatiently for the woman to appear. She was across the street leaning on the hood of a car and had her eyes shielded from the glare that was basking in the mid-day sun. When she saw the object of her impromptu stakeout exit the doors, she dodged traffic to cross the street and approach her.

Melinda saw her as she walked down the last step to the sidewalk. Pulling out a pair of sunglasses, she held them in her hand as she stood waiting for Megan to arrive.

"Dr. Thompson, may I have a word with you?"

Smiling sweetly, Melinda crossed her arms and shifted her hips in a relaxed pose. "I don't know, Agent Reeves, I had to leave my lawyer inside and want to be careful that I'm not tricked into saying something I shouldn't."

Megan wanted to laugh. She was sure the woman had known what she was going to say and do in that interrogation room, long before she hired a lawyer. "I highly doubt there's anything you've ever been tricked into saying- or doing."

Melinda's smile spread further across her face. Recognizing an opponent of equal worth, she asked pointedly, "What do you want?"

"I just came here to tell you this isn't over. You may have your freedom for now, but we haven't closed the case. There's something out there, some piece of evidence we haven't found yet; and when we do, I am going to personally place you in handcuffs and haul your ass away to a _permanent _cell."

Purposefully putting on her sunglasses, Melinda tossed her hair behind her, shaking the smile from her face. She pulled back her lips in a threatening grimace, her front incisors biting into her lips. "Well, you are right about one thing, Agent Reeves, this is far from over. After all, I still don't have my son." She enjoyed watching the worry lines that began to dig into Megan's brow. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some friends I need to see." She lithely stepped around her adversary and walked confidently away, leaving behind a concerned and fuming agent.

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Charlie lay on his stomach in his living room surrounded by thrown-about papers and books; to the average viewer he would appear to be swamped within an unmitigated mess- but Charlie was far from average and took in his random surroundings as a singular paradoxical mound, an integral comparison of how invincible he believed his brother to be, and how weak and submissive the institute had described him. He finished the last of the evaluations that Dr. Wang had instructed his staff to perform on Don, then began jotting quick notes on the exposed page of the notebook before him, the slant of his writing corresponding to whatever angle he happened to have twisted his body, so that the lines of words seemed to spiral inwards like a nautilus shell.

Climbing onto his knees and then leaning back on his haunches, Charlie yanked an old, worn journal from amongst the newer-printed forms splayed about him, and then he swiftly flipped its pages to a clean sheet slightly crinkled in the back. Grabbing a new pen from within the tight curls of his head, he began writing quick summaries of what he had read in the reports, comparing them neatly to his personal beliefs about the survival capabilities of his brother; using the pen as an extension of his own determination, he wrote his personal reflections with wider and stronger and deeper strokes than he wrote the opinions that he had copied from the institute's staff reports, as if the heavier pressure on the page would will his prognoses into reality.

Though Dr. Wang had summarized the reports with his belief that Don could be completely rehabilitated, it was clear that the rest of the staff had set limitations upon that recovery. Charlie's own perusal of the reports and opinions of the institute's staff led him to the conclusion that they did not have enough data to make their projections; unlike Charlie, they had not taken into consideration Don himself and the strong, determined personality that he had- the triumph of will which Charlie believed would tear their inhibited speculations to shreds.

This last consideration Charlie noted in the journal, and then he flipped back through his previous entries; they were long and varied. After their mother had died and his brother had come back into his life, Charlie had been scribbling weekly transcripts within the journal's pages, chronicling his interactions with Don and observations about his brother's behavior when the latter was at the office, in the field, and at play. Charlie had always had a somewhat obsessive curiosity about his brother, who seemed to contradict everything that comprised Charlie himself; within the scope of their blood relationship, the differences between them were anomalies that he was continually trying to resolve but had yet to find an algorithm that would do so successfully. Charlie closed the journal and hefted it in his hands, knowing that on the scales upon which balanced on one side Don's current defeat, and on the other side his prospects for victory, the weight of the information within its pages would tip the scales in his brother's favor.

Looking at the time, Charlie snatched all the papers up from the floor and slid them neatly into a binder. He had carefully punched-holed each sheet the previous day and labeled several of the binder's sections, so that the data the institute had given them would be easily accessible to both himself and his father; the labels for this first binder included the titles: evaluations, medications, prognoses, and physicians/therapists. Charlie had bought more of the adjustable holders so that it would be easy to add and separate new data as it was gathered, which would include what the therapists told them and what he decided to research on his own.

Picking up the binder and his collection of recently-purchased books on traumatic brain injury and general psychology, Charlie carried them to the buffet in the dining room and placed them on its empty top. When his father went to stay with Don at the institute, he had cleared it so that they could keep all of his brother's information in one location; though maintaining the myriad of facts in Don's rehabilitation within the neatly constricted place was not necessary for _Charlie _to keep abreast of his brother's progress, it was something that Charlie was aware his father would need, as the elder Eppes was an engineer who was most comfortable with strict order.

Walking into the kitchen, he checked that the refrigerator was full of the strawberry adult supplements his father had told him Don favored; there was just enough to last four days, as it was Friday and when the weekend was over Don was to start eating soft, solid food again. Charlie shut the fridge and started checking the house for any errant pictures of his mother, discovering one tiny portrait hidden on a shelf, long forgotten; he ran his finger over his mother's face, clearing a path through the dust that cloaked it, wondering if Don's mind would work the same way- if Charlie's presence would be able to cleanse the fabrications that clouded and obscured his brother's perception of his own existence.

A sudden wave of powerlessness hurtled through Charlie, making his legs bend beneath him even as he willed himself to stand, clutching his mother's photo briefly to his heart; he prayed silently, apologizing for his weakness during his mother's suffering and pleading to God that for once he could be imbued with Don's strength, just long enough to shoulder his brother's physical and mental burdens during his time of suffering. He permitted a solitary tear to leave his eye before he shook his head, obstinately refusing to succumb to the desire- the need- to flee to the garage and the shelter his numbers offered him.

Locking the picture in a drawer, he ran his fingers over the new stacks of DVDs next to the television and then walked to the stairs, climbing them two at a time, ignoring the extra handrails newly pounded into the wall, his focus and determination returned. Entering Don's bedroom, he checked that the sheets were fitted correctly and considerately fluffed the pile of pillows, absentmindedly walking about the room. The bedroom was quite bare- just the bed, a nightstand, a recliner pressed in the corner, and a dresser with mirror. The rehab nurse had explained to him that they should try to have uncluttered rooms, so that Don would not have any problems maneuvering. Though it appeared that he would not need physical therapy for his gross motor skills- he could correctly use his limbs and did not appear unbalanced- until the occupational therapist completed his own evaluation on Don's first visit, it would be best to be overcautious. Besides, she warned, his brother could easily trip and not be able to reflexively grasp a piece of furniture to stop his fall; another blow to the head could cause more damage to his brain at a time that it should be healing, and further aggravate his current condition.

At her suggestion, Charlie also had bars installed along the walls in the bathroom, though his father had said Don's day nurse was adamant that they not leave him alone when in the shower or tub; the new railings along the stairs were an extra precaution, too- Don would need to be escorted going up and down them, just in case. When she left Charlie, the nurse had added that any other assistive tools Don might need would be listed by the occupational therapist during his first visit the following week, that maintaining neatness and organization in the house was the best thing that he could do at this time- and keeping an eye on his brother, of course.

Charlie had followed her directions, pushing the furniture in the living room against the walls, including the coffee table, which was shoved into the corner. In the bathroom, he had taped down the rug even though it was already non-skid, and replaced the hard four-cornered hamper with a cloth one that hung on the back of the door. He had lined the tub with a plastic cushion that stretched up to the edges of porcelain. In Don's room, he had removed the ottoman, wastebasket, throw rugs, and sports equipment that had somehow ended up haphazardly abandoned about the room, storing the last set of items in Don's closet. Having filled the dresser's drawers with basic clothing and toiletries for Don, the only non-necessity in the room was an unframed picture of Don, Charlie, and Alan with their arms around each other, taped to the upper corner of the mirror.

It was late evening when the sound of a car pulling into the driveway caught Charlie's attention, so he put the last pillow down and strode from the room. He was halfway down the stairs when he realized the house was truly ready, but he wasn't. Leaning his back against the old banister, he bowed his head and flattened his palms against one another, his fingers compressed upward to form a steeple upon which he rested his chin. He pulled at his lower lip with his teeth, steadying his nerves while sliding down to sit on the stairs, one knee drawn up in front of him, the other bent down as he balanced unsteadily between two steps. When the front door finally opened, Charlie released himself from the impossible pose and faced forward on the stairs, sitting as one normally would with both his feet planted on the lower step in front of him. He grabbed the balusters to his right and leaned his face between them, wanting to scrutinize the men as they came across the threshold. Charlie realized he needed more than written reports- he needed to make field observations in order to come to terms with all that he had heard and read.

Charlie had talked to his father on the phone earlier and knew the elder Eppes was exhausted, having spent the day trying to convince Don to leave the institution and come home with him. He had guiltily confessed to Charlie that he had exploded at Don the previous day, and because of that he was hesitant to force him to come with him. Alan had indirectly been able to accomplish the goal when Debra authoritatively walked Don to his car and then personally secured him in the front seat, giving him a tender kiss on the cheek and gently rubbing his hair, promising to visit if he was a good boy for his father. At the time his father called, stuck in traffic once again, he said Don was still massaging his cheek and smiling, as if he was having pleasant thoughts for the first time in months.

Only able to see the corner of the door as it opened, Charlie wondered if his brother would still be smiling when he entered the childhood home that was now so foreign to him; he knew that Don would cry when confronted with new people and places, so Charlie speculated that the smile was already washed from his brother's face.

Charlie was also curious about the stuffed toy that Don clung to and called Buddy. He was certain that Don had chosen to name the focal point of his security after his younger brother; this unsettled Charlie, as the thought of Don reaching out to him for protection from miles away stroked his repressed feelings of inadequacy. Despite the facts to the contrary, Charlie continued to admonish himself for not having been there for his brother when he obviously needed and wanted his help, had reached for it in the only way his sick mind could- deluding himself into believing an inanimate object encompassed the soul of his supposedly protective brother.

Unknown to Charlie, his father was torturing himself with similar questions and doubts about his own inability to save his son.

Soft whispers floated in the air. Out of habit, Charlie had only left on a small lamp in the corner of the living room and a light at the entryway. He realized they would have to forego saving electricity and start keeping the house fully lit; Don needed to be able to see clearly where he was going and where he was at. Because of the spread of nighttime, when Charlie first saw his brother his form was dark and foreboding, his features unclear and his body bunched. Alan walked next to him, holding his upper arm and leading him to the back of the living room; a few minutes later, his father walked past, not seeing him, going into the kitchen. Charlie was hidden, naturally blending into the darkness seeping over the stairs and banister. He watched as Alan walked past him again, heading back to Don.

Slinking down the stairs, Charlie sat on the bottom step and peered around the final column, unobtrusively studying his father and brother. Alan was seated at the end of the couch with a pillow on his lap; he gently rubbed Don's hair, then ran his arm around his shoulder, pulling his son tenderly to lay his head on his lap. Charlie froze when Don curled up and his stuffed toy Buddy appeared, squeezed tightly under his left arm; but he began to tremble when Alan pushed air from a bottle and without hesitation Don allowed its nipple to be pushed between his lips, the quiet sucking sounds he made reverberating in Charlie's head. Alan resumed brushing his fingers through Don's hair, while Charlie mimicked his father's motion with his own hands and head in an attempt to erase the noise and image from his consciousness- but it persisted. Hating himself for not having the courage to confront his brother's condition, Charlie was forced to flee, overwhelmed by the real-life applications of the evaluations he had read. Still, he refused the solace of his numbers, instead padding quickly up the stairs and seeking comfort in the familiarity of his brother's room.

Only, without Don's things, it was no longer familiar.

Charlie sat on the bed, chiding himself for his behavior and wondering if he would suffer memory loss, too- if he would be able to remember who Don had been, beyond the child who currently lay upon his father's lap. Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine every moment he had spent with Don, but he was hindered in that quest by the hallucinatory suckling noises that continued to resonate in his head. When he opened his eyes, they traveled to the picture of him, his father, and Don taped to the dresser's mirror. Jumping off the bed, Charlie pounced on it and held it within his grasp, running the tips of his fingers across his brother's face. He looked up from his ruminations, and instinctively walked to Don's closet door, yanking it open as if it held the answers to his current quandary. Packed inside with the sports equipment was the old clothing that Don had left years before in the room; Charlie cleared himself a space amongst the junk and sank to the floor, pulling the door shut behind him, numbers backhanding his mind for attention as he forced himself to concentrate on Don, the family picture still clenched in his hand.

The sound of feet dragging across a carpeted floor drew Charlie out of his trance. He sat motionless in the closet, knowing that his father and brother must have entered the room. Slow, muffled words slipped through the crack at the bottom of the door, the slight interruption to his solitude lasting less than twenty minutes before he heard a click and darkness enveloped him. Dropping the picture from his hand, Charlie noiselessly turned the knob of the closet and peered out into the room, leaning on his knees so as to not tumble out in a heap.

A small triangle of light fell onto Don's bed. Charlie used the doorknob to pull himself up to his feet, and stepped gingerly into the room, crossing to his brother with catlike grace. Don appeared quite large under the mounds of blankets, until Charlie realized his father was sleeping behind Don, both lying on their right sides as his father's cheek rested on the narrow space between his brother's shoulder blades. Charlie attempted to sneak from the room, when a hushed voice called to him.

"I was looking for you." Alan had raised his head up from his pillow, hovering over Don's.

Turning back, Charlie stood next to the bed, his head hanging down and his right hand rubbing at the base of his skull. "I panicked when I saw Don and hid up here," he apologized.

Don drowsily lifted his head. Charlie noticed that Don had a bottle hanging half-way from his mouth, his lips pursing in and out in search of supplication. Without thinking, Charlie kicked off his shoes, crawled into the bed and sat up against the headboard, his legs stretched out in front of him. He maneuvered the bottle back into Don's mouth, his brother responding by turning over onto his back and deeply sucking the liquid. When Don had inhaled the last drop, Charlie rolled the nipple from between his teeth and placed the bottle on the nightstand.

Don secured his thumb in his mouth, his breathing deepening into a weak snore that scarcely squeezed out around the thick obstruction, while he pulled Buddy out from under his body, cuddling the rabbit in the crook of his elbow. Charlie gently ran his fingertips across Don's right cheek, ignoring the disconcerting behaviors- his awareness was of his brother alone.

"You don't have to apologize, Charlie," Alan whispered across Don, his right cheek now resting flat on a pillow.

"I feel like I do," Charlie stated, their hushed voices floating back and forth over Don's sleeping form.

"It will get better."

"I know." Charlie sank lower down the headboard, so he could see his father's face more clearly. "Just being near him makes it better."

Alan nodded into his pillow. "You know, I didn't exactly _choose_ to be this near."

"No?"

"No. He was frightened, and wouldn't let me leave."

"He's afraid to be here in this house, isn't he?"

"It's not just that, Charlie. You read the reports- sometimes he has nightmares. Wang prescribed him sedatives, but says they don't always prevent them."

Charlie took this in, remembering the physical had uncovered scars on Don's legs, and that staff had heard him scream 'teeth' when waking from nightmares. As he and his father continued their whispered conversation, Charlie continued to descend down the headboard until he lay scrunched on his side against Don, an arm laid protectively over his brother's chest. Both father and son eventually fell silent, their fatigue overcoming them. Soon, the sound of three men snoring in time to their individual heartbeats filled the air, a simple symphony of thankfulness and innocent love.


	22. How I Tried to Help

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined. I got the few words I used from "There Was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly" from a website I list on my profile page. And I do not own the rights to "Peter Rabbit".

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"Mel!" It is so nice to see you," Holly Miller led her guest to her patio, offering a seat and an expansive view of Los Angeles.

"Well, I haven't seen you in so long, I thought I'd check in on you; I've worried about you since Albert passed away."

Holly's eyes looked past Melinda, staring across the open land that dipped below the boundaries of her property. "Actually, I haven't been able to think of anything else. He had seemed so healthy, I just never imagined…"

"That's the way it always is," Melinda patted Holly's hand, "You love someone deeply like it will never end, and then suddenly they're taken from you, often when you least expect it."

"Yes, it was just like that- sudden and unexpected. But you were there for me, Mel, and I'll never know how to thank you."

"Actually, that is why I am here. Please forgive me if it is wrong to ask, but I need a small favor."

"Why Melinda! How could you even think not to ask? I'll do anything you want- anything at all."

"I thought you would, but if you are still mourning…"

"If there is something I can do to get Albert off my mind, then ask me to do it; I've been hiding out in this house for months now- just moping- and I must confess it has become quite boring."

Laughing, Melinda held her friend's hand.

"Actually, I think it is something that will both take your mind off Albert _and _bring you enjoyment. You know I sold my majority interest in Thompson Pharmaceuticals last year?"

"Yes, I thought it was a way of purging your memories of Randy."

"Maybe it was, but I did keep a substantial investment in the company; after all, the stock has always maintained a high value. One of the perks I retained before the sale was access to a property in Italy- it is just a quaint little villa, really, nothing more. The company has always owned it in name, but now that I am no longer majority holder, they have recently informed me that they plan to sell the house and the land. Only, the furnishings inside are owned by me; I am entangled in some other business affair at this time, and need someone else to remove them before the sale. That is the favor I need to ask you."

"So, you want me to find someone to box your possessions and ship them back here? Or, would you want them to be sold, like at an auction?

"A little bit of both. But I don't want you to find someone to do it- I want you to go yourself."

"Really, Mel- to Italy? It has been ages since I've been there!"

"I know, I haven't been there myself since before Randy died." Melinda took her friend's other hand, clasping both of them within her own as they sat knee-to-knee. "It'll be good for you, Holly, I am sure of it. It is beautiful in Italy this time of year; the fresh air and change in scenery will make a new woman of you. And when you're done packing up the house, I'll pay for you to stay at one of those darling little boarding homes for as long as you like."

"You're not doing this just because I miss Albert, are you? I appreciate the offer, but still…"

"Oh, no, I really need your help. I don't know any of the local brokers, and, other than you, I don't think I could trust anyone to know which items to keep and which ones to sell; you've always had such impeccable taste. Please say yes- I still have access to the company plane and you could leave for Milan tomorrow."

Holly smiled, hugging her friend and sighing, "I could never say no to you, Mel."

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Charlie rolled his neck, trying to ease the kinks in it. He had kept his head at an unnatural angle against Don throughout most of the night, letting it rest against his shoulder or back, and finally his chest- depending upon the other's shift in position; Charlie only moved occasionally himself within the narrow space that he had been granted on the bed. Blinking his eyes open, he pulled his head up and aligned his face inches from Don's, observing his brother briefly in the fading darkness while he slept. Don's face was placid, the crinkles that normally shown around his eyes lax and smooth, his hair unkempt and lightly damp around the edges, like it always was after he played baseball. Sitting up on one elbow, Charlie carefully slipped his index finger into the fist that protruded from Don's mouth, wisps of breath warming his skin, enjoying how his brother's fingers just barely wrapped around his own, as if he was clinging to him instead of Buddy.

_He seems so young and fragile- I wish we could keep him between us, safe, forever. _

Knowing that Don woke up regularly at seven, Charlie pulled his finger from Don's light grasp, rolled over and slid out of bed, not wanting to frighten him by his unfamiliar presence. He crept from the room and began his own morning routine, utilizing the bathroom and taking a quick shower, then dressing in comfortable Dockers and t-shirt. When finished, he quietly whistled to the kitchen, noting that Don should be awake soon and would want breakfast. After quickly chomping an apple to stay his own appetite, Charlie gathered three filled bottles from the refrigerator in his arms, walked through to the dining room, stopped long enough to grab Don's binder from the buffet, and then he returned upstairs. When he arrived at the bedroom, he maneuvered the bottles and binder under the pressure of one arm and opened the door slowly, hearing someone moving and hoping it was not Don. He wanted Alan to be awake the first time he and his brother met, so that Don's fear of him could be kept to a minimum by their father's reassuring words.

To Charlie's relief, it was his father.

Charlie pushed the door open and entered the bedroom, smiling at Alan, whispering "Hope you slept better than I did."

Alan was sitting in the recliner, twisting his body back and forth at his waist, and then rubbing his knees, which cracked when he finally stood. "Oh," he moaned quietly. "Not likely. Donny kept turning over and wrapping his arm and leg around me. All that weight pressing on my joints- I'm surprised I can even move."

"Won't he be awake soon?" Charlie asked, continuing to keep his voice low and putting the bottles on the nightstand. Alan began pushing the air out of them.

"Yes. What's that you have there?" Alan nodded towards the binder Charlie held in his hand.

"It's all of the information that's been collected on Don. I thought it might be useful if we were organized; we'll have to track and coordinate a lot of factors during his rehabilitation."

Alan raised his eyebrows. "Really, let me take a look."

Both men went to stand by the open bedroom door, taking advantage of the light coming in from the hallway. "This is good, Charlie. It'll be a lot easier for me to find everything Donny needs."

A rustling sound followed by tiny creaks caught the attention of both men; they looked up to see Don sitting on the edge of his bed, looking about in confusion, and frightened because he did not remember where he was. With Buddy held in his arms, he started crying profusely until he met Alan's eyes; when he saw him, Don recognized who he was, the confusion on his face making over into a plead for his father.

Alan rushed to him, sitting on the bed and pulling him in close. While he began massaging Don, Alan looked across to Charlie and waved him to stand near the closet, afraid Charlie would take off again if he stood near the exit too long. Alan did not want to have to wait to introduce his two sons to each other; the soreness in his joints and the thoughtfulness of the binder reminded him that he needed Charlie's help. And Alan knew he could only take full advantage of Charlie if he and Don learned to be near each other.

His voice muffled against Alan's chest, Don asked him, "Where are we?"

"We're home, Donny."

"Is not my home."

"Yes, Donny. It's my home, and now it's yours, too."

"Mommy won't know."

"That's alright, Donny. You're going to stay here with me. Remember?"

"I need Mommy." As Don's sobs increased, so did Alan's physical reassurances.

Inside, though, Alan seethed. He had been waiting over two years for Don to cry for the loss of his mother, knowing his son needed the release in order to come to terms with her death. As Alan listened to Don's despair at losing Dr. Thompson, he cursed the woman for stealing the emotions that Don once had for his mother, and for taking his late wife's rightful place as the focus of his son's grief.

While Alan continued to console Don, Charlie stood silently watching his brother cry. He had never seen Don cry- not like he was doing now, not as an adult. Even when they were younger, Don rarely cried, just an occasional tear slipping through despite his best efforts- and it seemed like it was never from sadness, but from anger or pain. As adults, Charlie had viewed Don as detached and unemotional, so that it had not seemed possible that he even had the proper outlets from which tears could flow.

But, Charlie reflected, he had been wrong. Don had tear ducts, ones in good working order if the continuous flow of liquid pouring from them was evidence. Charlie wondered about all the times in Don's life that he should have cried, if all those tears had been locked away in his brother's mind and that somehow his head injury had been the key to unleash them, a torrent that he could no longer control within himself. Charlie wanted to stop that flood like his father was doing, use comforting words and tender touches to dam them up; he felt the need so badly that he had to fasten himself to the closet door, knowing that any approach to Don would only make the situation worse because he would most likely frighten him. Charlie knew he had to contain his emotions, as it was an ability that his brother no longer possessed.

As he began to calm down, Don tightened his arms around Alan- who released a strained breath, then assured him, "I'll take care of you, Donny. You don't need Mommy for that anymore. You're with me now, and your brother. See. He's right over there."

Sticking his thumb in his mouth, Don darted his eyes around him until they fell on Charlie, whose appearance was slowly emerging in the morning light that was expanding in the room.

"Charlie, go turn on the light so your brother can see you more clearly," Alan directed.

Without thinking, Charlie did as he was told, cautiously returning to his position at the closet door, standing directly across from his brother's frightened but curious eyes. They studied one another, Charlie trying to discern any recognition in Don's eyes, while the other tried to decide if this new person was a threat.

Don suddenly stiffened and sat up, his eyes widening somewhat as he looked down at his lap. Alan immediately understood the problem.

"Wait here, Charlie. I'm taking Donny to the bathroom. When we get back, you two can work on getting to know each other better."

While they were gone, Charlie grabbed the binder and checked Don's schedule, pacing back and forth nervously. He did not want to scare Don, or make any mistakes that would make him more anxious than he already was. When he heard the bathroom door open, Charlie put down the binder and sat in the recliner, hoping he would look less intimidating to his brother.

Don entered the room with Alan holding his hand.He tepidly walked to the bed and lay down, keeping his focus on Alan as he had once done with Debra. Alan sat at the bed's edge facing Don, expertly feeding him with his left hand, all the while rubbing his right hand along his stomach and side. Charlie observed quietly, noting how Don trusted their father; he wanted to earn that trust, too.

When Alan reached for the last bottle, he copied Debra in allowing Charlie to take over for him; Don was noticeably stressed by their switch in position. While Alan continued a litany of assurances that Charlie was his brother and wanted to take care of him, too, Charlie tried to make eye contact with Don, but the latter shut his eyes, drinking so quickly that a small stream of fluid spilled from the side of his mouth; reaching around Charlie, Alan mopped it up with the end of his pajama top. When Don finished, Charlie grabbed the bottles intending to take them downstairs, trying to ignore the way Don had turned over on the bed and placed his back to him when done drinking.

"Where are the things he needs for his bath?" Charlie asked Alan.

"Oh, I forgot. I left them in the car- there are quite a few packages from the institute. Bring the black suitcase and the brown bag marked 'bath' up here. If you put the rest of it in the dining room, we can sort it out later."

Nodding, Charlie traveled downstairs, taking care of the bottles, exiting the kitchen door, and reentering ten minutes later with his arms loaded from his dad's car. Dropping the items in the dining room as told, he took Don's suitcase and bath bag up to his bedroom. Both Alan and Don had vacated the room, so Charlie emptied the clothes from the suitcase into Don's dresser and put his shoes under his bed; he then took the bag across the hall to the bathroom, knocking twice before entering.

Alan was kneeling next to the bath tub, running his hand through the water to test its temperature. Don stood undressed beside him, looking into the water, stepping from one foot to the other anxiously. Charlie was momentarily taken aback by the sight of his brother's naked form; he quickly recovered and averted his eyes.

After Charlie gave a quiet 'ahem', the two men looked toward him. Don stood still while Alan twisted, beckoning Charlie towards him.

"Right now, I just need the three boats on top."

Keeping his eyes on his hands, Charlie opened the bag and grabbed the toys, handing them one by one to Alan, who floated them in the tub, Don watching intently the entire time.

"Okay," Alan grabbed the tub's side and pulled himself up with an 'Oof". "Let me show you how to help Don into the tub." Swallowing his embarrassment twice, Charlie raised his head and watched Alan as he positioned himself next to Don, shouldered his weight, and lowered him in. Don immediately began playing with the boats, completely engrossed in the routine. "Uh, if you don't mind, it would be a little easier on my knees if you could wash Don."

Charlie chewed on his index finger as he drew near to the tub. "I don't know," he responded nervously. "He didn't seem too happy when I fed him. Do you think he'll let me?"

"Well, his day nurse told me he does just about anything if you tell him to be a quote _good boy_ unquote; it seemed to work when getting him used to me."

Charlie thought about the expression. _Isn't good boy what you say to a dog_? During his contemplation, he watched Don play with his boats and wondered if Dr. Thompson had used the expression as one way to teach his brother the childish behavior.

Charlie came to a decision and crossed his arms, shaking his head, "No- I won't use that phrase. I don't understand how referring to Don as a boy will help him remember he is a man." He fixed his eyes on his father, "It might take longer, but I think Don is going to have to learn to trust me our way, not"- he hesitated to speak her name, not knowing how well his brother was listening to what he was saying- "not _her _way."

Alan frowned, then rubbed a hand across his weary face as he sat on the lid to the toilet. "I guess I was looking for the easiest way to get Donny home; it never occurred to me those were _her _words, not Debra's."

"I understand, Dad. Within a limited time, you used the best method available to achieve a desired outcome. The situation is different now; our methods are not bound by such narrow restraints of time."

"You're right, of course-we _can _change some of the ways we talk to Donny. But he has a lot of behaviors that we can't change. You have to accept that he is going to continue to do things that neither one of us like, until _he _is ready to give them up and wants to behave otherwise."

Nodding his head in agreement, Charlie responded, "Fine, so we take small steps. Let's agree the first one will be to _not _use that phrase."

"Okay- agreed. Now, convince him to let you give him a bath."

Lowering himself to his knees, Charlie leaned slightly forward against the tub, reaching for the nearest boat floating on top. Don suddenly shifted his attention from his toys to his brother, shivering despite the heat of the water; he stopped playing, waiting uneasily to see what Charlie would do.

Charlie lifted the boat, looking at its design; it was a simple, red plastic tugboat, with fat, round edges and large holes cut out for the windows. There were no sharp edges or details; it had obviously been designed for a baby or toddler. Charlie put it back in the water and dragged the tugboat back and forth, eyeing Don out of the corner of his eye. To his disappointment, Don slid down the back of the tub and closed his eyes, ignoring both the toys and his brother.

Abandoning the boat and standing up, Charlie tried the direct approach.

"Don, would it be alright if I gave you a bath?"

Sinking a little lower in the water, Don did not respond.

Charlie stepped over to stand next to Don's head, speaking quietly. "Do you know who I am?"

Briefly peaking one eye at Charlie, Don replied, "Yes."

"Who am I?"

Don fidgeted a little in the water. "My brother."

"Do you know what that means?"

His eyebrows burrowed together, Don obviously concentrated on the last question; suddenly, he bolted straight up in the tub; he began pulling at his left ear while throwing a frightened glance at his father, his breathing increasing in speed.

"What's wrong, Donny?" Alan promptly rose from his seat and moved in front of Charlie, blocking Don's view of his brother.

Grabbing at his father's hand, but unable to obtain a grip, Don said, "He's real smart," wanting to convey what that meant to him, but not capable of explaining.

Confused, Alan agreed, "Yes, Charlie is smart. You don't like that?"

"No I don't." His eyes glassed over with a subtle panic; Alan read them and responded, "I think maybe you should leave, Charlie. Something he remembers about you is upsetting him."

Charlie hesitantly agreed, "Okay. Are you going to be alright? I could get you a chair to sit on."

"No, it's easier to reach around and under him when we're level with each other." Turning to smile at Charlie, Alan promised, "Don't worry, there are other things that you can help me with, and eventually one of them _will _be this. Until then, I can handle it."

Trying to put aside his disappointment at Don's rejection, Charlie offered to make breakfast. "Great," Alan encouraged him, "That's just what I'll need. Give us about an hour."

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Don was dressed and sitting on the living room floor, watching a cartoon DVD that he had been allowed to choose. Charlie had set up the table so he and Alan could keep an eye on him while they ate breakfast.

"This is good, Charlie. Thanks."

"No problem. When you're done eating, I can watch Don while you take a shower and get dressed. I'll do the dishes later."

Alan hedged a little before giving a response to the offer. "Well, if you promise you won't leave him alone- I mean, not even for a second."

Charlie knew something was wrong by his father's hesitation. When Don had been at Dr. Thompson's house, he had supposedly been free to walk around her house, and did not appear to have hurt himself. "I'll keep an eye on him, Dad, but I think he'll be alright if I have to leave the room for a moment…"

Alan stopped eating, throwing his napkin on his plate and trying to avoid Charlie's questioning eyes. He leaned on his arms, talking to the table. "Megan called me while I was stuck in traffic with Don yesterday."

From his father's behavior, Charlie discerned that the news could not have been good. "And?"

"And, they had to drop the charges against Dr. Thompson. She was released yesterday."

Charlie dropped his fork with a clang; he stood up, his hands moving wildly, one to his forehead, another to his hip, then one back to the base of his skull, another rubbing his chin, all the while pacing back and forth. "How is that possible- _they found him in her house?"_

"She said she was taking care of him, thought he had been left homeless by an uncaring family. Megan said if they had gone to trial, they would have lost and Thompson would never pay for what she did to Don. Megan swears they'll keep looking until they have the evidence to convict her."

Nodding his head into his hand, Charlie tried to comprehend what this meant to Don's situation. "You don't think she'll come after Don, do you? Can they offer him protection?"

"Nothing official. Since the charges have been dropped, the Bureau stance is that Don is not- has never been- in danger from Thompson. His friends have offered to sit outside when they can, to keep an eye out for us. But according to Megan, Dr. Thompson probably won't try to take Don again. However, she thinks she is planning to do something- she just can't figure out what."

Stopping in the middle of his flurried activity, Charlie focused his attention on his brother, watching Don sitting quietly in the living room, his appearance angelic and far removed from the concerns that his family was discussing. "I have to- we have to- protect him. I swear, I won't leave him alone for a moment."

"I trust you, Charlie." Alan left the table to stand next tohim, sharing in his observances of Don. "Uh- you think maybe you could come up with an algorithm to figure out what she did to Don; then they'd know what evidence to look for."

Charlie turned abruptly, staring at his father. "I've been afraid to concentrate on too many numbers- I'm already working on algorithms to determine how long and how successful Don's rehabilitation will be. I'm afraid if I do too many things at once, I'll get lost in my work, just like when Mom was sick."

"You were a different person then. Don was there for you to rely on; now, he needs you and you've been there for him. If you can't stop thinking about the numbers anyway, why not use them to help Don in all the ways you can?"

Resting a hand on Charlie's neck, Alan restated his faith in his son, "I have a feeling that no matter how deep you get in your mind, one word from Donny and you'll snap out of it." Leaving to take his shower and get dressed, Alan added, "You know-he's always had that effect on you."

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The Eppes men spent the rest of the day uneventfully at home, Charlie busying himself between kitchen work and the garage, where he was applying numerical values to the different aspects affecting Don's ability to recover; after his father's talk with him, he was now confidant in his own ability to leave the comfort of his numbers with regularity and as needed. Alan was sitting in the living room with Don, dividing his time between Sudoku puzzles and mounting the electric train from the institute on the coffee table, having finally gained Don's interest.

The day ended, and about an hour after Don and Alan had gone to bed, Charlie went to check on them, his plan to crash with a blanket in the recliner in Don's bedroom. Once he had settled into the chair, he again heard Alan calling to him, "There's not much room, Charlie, but the bed still has to be more comfortable than that chair."

Hesitantly, Charlie walked to the bed, carefully climbing in when he saw that Don was turned on his side towards Alan, limbs entangled around his father, leaving adequate space behind him. Lying on his back, Charlie put an arm under his head and asked, "Uh, you don't think this is kinda, you know, odd- us all sleeping in the same bed, do you?"

Stifling a laugh over Don's head, Alan explained, "I'll have you know your grandfather slept with his father and brother more than five years into his marriage."

"You're kidding."

"Well, three couples in a house and two beds, figure it out."

"And how did they manage…?"

"They had to be creative in granting each other privacy. You know, not every family can afford to give a bed to each of its members; we're kinda spoiled in this country."

"Well, not everyone is."

"True. In any case, _this_ family needs the closeness- for now. And I personally don't feel Don is safe unless one of us is with him. Maybe I'm a little paranoid, but like everything else, it'll get better."

"I think that should be our anthem- "It'll get better."

Laughing softly, Alan told Charlie, "Remember that when Don sees the therapists on Monday- and if he rejects you again tomorrow. It'll take time, but"-

"It'll get better," Charlie finished, shimmying deeply into the mattress, believing his own words as he lay in the small enclave his family had formed on the bed.


	23. How You Came To Trust Me

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or any character therein. All characters are fictional and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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Charlie's faith began to waver.

It was Sunday, and Don was upstairs taking a nap while Alan kept watch over him from the recliner near his bed. Charlie had again spent the day trying to get Don to trust him, but every time he tried to talk to him or help feed and dress him, or when he attempted to bathe him again, Don had become upset, crying to his father. Alan had quickly sent Charlie from the room, not wanting Don to lose the fragile trust he had in his father to keep him safe. Though he understood that Don had only been home two days, what really bothered Charlie was that he was not just being rejected by Don; his brother appeared to be terrified by him and he could not figure out why.

"Charlie."

Raising his head from the books and notebooks spread in front of him on the dining room table, Charlie looked up at his father, who was speaking to him through the balusters on the stairs

"I need to look at Donny's binder for tomorrow," Alan said, "and I think this is about the only time I can. Come watch him while I go over his evaluations."

Obediently, Charlie gathered his things together, attaching a small reading light to the hard cover of one book; afraid he'd fall asleep while he sat in the dark, he took a couple cans of caffeinated soda from the refrigerator, and then took his small bundle upstairs, balancing it carefully on the nightstand when he entered the bedroom. He took his father's place in the recliner, Alan standing in the doorway because he refused to leave Don until Charlie was fully established in the room.

After he was satisfied that Charlie was well-settled, Alan went downstairs and picked up Don's binder and a highlighter, then he sat on the couch in the living room. Now, he thought, if I can just pick out the major points I'll need to know for tomorrow. He stifled a yawn and sank deeper into the couch; two nights of sharing a bed with his grown sons finally had their effect, as soft snores began emanating from his mouth before he had finished reading the title of the first page.

Storm clouds gathered outside the Eppes' home, blocking out the sun. The sky blackened within minutes, rain starting to pelt down in harsh waves against the window panes, the wind emitting a high-pitched screech, a forbear of worse things to come.

Inside, Charlie sat reading with his legs drawn up under him, regularly looking over at Don, who was lying on top of the bed, his belt and jeans undone so he could sleep comfortably. Taking a large gulp of caffeine, Charlie's own eyes were drooping in response to the rhythmic patter of the rain. He opened up his second can of soda, propped it on his books after taking a swig, and got up out of the chair, walking back and forth quietly to stretch his legs.

A fast bolt of lightning was followed by a loud crash of thunder, which shook the house. Don reacted to the loud noise by flinging himself from the bed and tripping to the floor, knocking the nightstand and spilling all of Charlie's books and notebooks, the last dregs of pop seeping into the rug. Throwing on the lights, Charlie yelled out the door for his father; he then ran to help Don, who was half-asleep and struggling to sit up. Lifting Don back up to sit on the bed, Charlie tried to calm him down, not able to utilize Buddy as he did not see the toy had fallen hidden under the bed, and afraid that touching Don would be counterproductive. He visually checked his brother's head and was glad that he had not hit it.

Don was scared sitting next to Charlie. He chewed hard on his thumb, his left hand twisting his ear, wondering where his Daddy and Buddy were. Don had been afraid of Charlie ever since he took his bath the day before, when he had seen how strong his father and brother were; they had lots of muscles, not like Mommy, who was thin- but who could still hit him hard enough to hurt really bad. It scared Don to think how it would hurt if they had to teach him to behave, so he tried to do everything Daddy told him to do. But when Charlie had talked to him during his bath, somehow Don knew his brother was really smart and could count really fast; if Daddy let Charlie count when Don had to get the belt, Don knew he would not be able to move quick enough and would be hit lots and lots of times. Really hard.

Tears forever-developing in his eyes, Don noticed the mess he had made when jumping out of bed. He wished Mommy was there to clean up after him, like she had before; but she didn't know where he was, so she couldn't help him now. "Daddy," Don cried around his thumb, wanting him to make Charlie go away. When another blast of thunder exploded outside the window, Don's body jumped involuntarily as he sat on the edge of the bed.

"Is that what's scaring you?" Charlie asked, "The thunder?"

Don lowered his face away from Charlie, not hearing his words; all he could think about was the mess he had made on the floor, wondering how hard and how many times Charlie was going to hit him, and why he could never be good.

Moving away from Don in hopes of easing the other's tension, Charlie ignored his upturned books and sat back down in the recliner, focusing on Don. "When we were little, Dad had us count between the lightning and the thunder; that way, we could tell when the storm was going to leave."

Hearing the word 'count', Don suddenly fixed his eyes on Charlie, who mistakenly thought his brother's interest was a positive response in wanting to know when the storm would go away. Don no longer wondered where Buddy was; _he_ mistakenly thought his brother had taken him away so he could be punished.

Eager to please Don, Charlie watched for the next flash of lightning and began to count, waiting for the sound of thunder. While he softly listed the numbers, Charlie was surprised to see Don rush from his bed and stand in front of him; his surprise turned to fear when Don inserted his thumb into his belt buckle and pulled it from the loops of his jeans, holding it out to Charlie. Shaky with confusion, he took the belt from Don, trying to understand the terror he saw in his brother's eyes.

"W-why did you give this-s to me, Don?" Charlie stuttered. He wanted to get his dad, but Don was blocking his path, standing directly in front of him.

"Five," Don told Charlie helpfully, afraid that he might realize he had actually stopped at seven.

Licking his lips, Charlie asked, "Five w-what?"

"Five times," Don said, becoming confused himself at Charlie's hesitation. Knowing that waiting to be belted could seem worse than the actual physical pain, he turned his back to Charlie, then slid his hands into his jeans and under his boxers, slowly pushing down to remove his clothing.

Charlie stared with horror at his brother's behavior. As Don's jeans started to slide down, Charlie saw the pallid and barely perceptible scars that lingered on his lower back and upper bottom. Finally realizing what Don expected him to do, Charlie put out a hand and stopped Don from pushing his clothes down any further.

"Stand still, Don," he ordered, the crisp firmness of his tone a surprise to his ears. Charlie leaned forward and scrutinized Don's exposed skin, the faded scars appearing to be innumerable and haphazardly placed, no pattern discernible to the average person; Charlie's mind, however, began to classify each pale imprint, moving them around in order in his mind until he found two parallel sets of marks that he could separate from the rest. Doubling up the belt, he fitted it perfectly within the diminished lines, his brother's trembling in reaction to the touch of the belt filling him with deathly anger as he now held in his hand the formerly unknown object that Dr. Thompson had used to beat and control his brother.

Dropping the belt to the floor, Charlie placed his hands over Don's and removed them from his jeans. He then pulled up his boxers and pants, gently pushing him away. Don turned and looked at Charlie, waiting anxiously; he was afraid Charlie would begin recounting, only this time as fast as Don remembered he could.

"Five," Don begged Charlie. "Only five."

Unknowingly to Charlie, his face conveyed the fury he felt for Dr. Thompson. As he rose from the recliner, Don started stepping backwards, trying to find a place to hide, but finding none, settling on scrunching himself into a corner of the room. Deciding that he should not have lied to Charlie about his stopping on five, Don tried a second attempt at convincing his brother to not start over, but to stick to a number of hits that Don believed he could endure.

"Seven, Charlie," he started crying. "Please, seven."

Realizing he was frightening his brother, Charlie stopped in the middle of the room and composed himself, taking deep breaths until his anger fled, bit by bit the emotion becoming replaced with compassion and concern. Stepping gingerly up to Don, who had begun to whimper amidst his sobs, Charlie gently cupped his face in the palms of his hands, wiping the tears from his face softly with his thumbs. "I will never hurt you, Don; I promise. Dad will never hurt you, Don; I promise. You don't have to be afraid of us."

Don's body gradually relaxed and he slowly quieted down. He looked over Charlie's shoulder at the belt. Seeing the direction of his brother's gaze, Charlie asked, "Do you want me to get rid of it?"

Don nodded his head timidly. Charlie clutched his hand and led him across the room. Picking up the belt, Charlie let the desire to tear it up pass through him, but common sense made him suppress the urge; he believed that they now had a solid piece of physical evidence that could be directly linked to Dr. Thompson. Instead of destroying the belt, he decided to hide it, opening up the closet door and trying to find a good place to put it. He rummaged through the sports equipment and clothes in the front of the closet until he found an old security box with a lock and key behind some old children's books in a back corner. He showed the box to Don, then placed the belt inside, flamboyantly snapping the lid shut, locking it up and putting it in the closet. Charlie was about to shut the closet door when he thought about the books, spontaneously grabbing them. He remembered Don used to read to him during thunderstorms when they were little, the sound of his strong voice chasing away his fears; maybe his voice could chase _Don's_ fears away today.

After shutting the closet door, Charlie noticed Don staring at it. Assuming the unlocked door wasn't enough protection in Don's eyes, Charlie put the thin books on top of the dresser and pushed the heavy piece of furniture in front of it.

Don was amazed. Charlie had locked away the belt- he couldn't hit him now, and neither could anybody else. Bridges of trust were scaffolding together in Don's mind, connecting to forgotten feelings he had buried deep inside, ones that had always allowed him to believe in Charlie. His faith growing and his fear waning, Don pointedly stared at the mess he had made on the floor, nervously darting his eyes between it and Charlie, sucking his thumb while he waited to see what his brother would do. Observing Don's eye movement and newly understanding why Don had felt he should be punished, Charlie picked up the large medical books and notebooks, dropping them on the recliner, and then ran to the bathroom, returning with a damp towel to blot up the soda, all the while telling Don, "It was an accident. You didn't mean to do it. I'm not mad at you. See, everything is as good as new."

As he was bent over cleaning, Charlie saw Buddy. He pulled the toy from beneath the bed, stood up and lovingly placed it in Don's arms. With the belt locked away and no punishment for his bad behavior-even without Buddy to protect him- Don smiled, the last fears he had of Charlie disintegrating. Because of his simple but thoughtful actions to convince Don he would not hurt him, Charlie had formed an irrevocable and protective bond with his brother.

Charlie regarded Don's body language. He was no longer trembling, he was standing close to him, and, most importantly, he was smiling. Satisfied that Don was mostly over his fear of him, Charlie picked the books up from the dresser. He was just about to ask Don if he wanted him to read a story when a loud boom sounded and the lights went out. Charlie desperately reached in the dark for Don, feeling his brother's arms wrap around him in a stranglehold when they met; he repeated the list of soothing words he had heard his father tell Don ever since he had come home, pleased to be the one who Don was seeking for safety.

"Scared, Charlie," Don whispered.

"It's okay, Don. The power just went out. Walk over here with me and I'll get my reading light." Charlie released the light from the book it was attached to, holding it in his hand while he turned it on; the thin light bathed them in an eerie glow. Guiding Don to the bed, he told him "When we were kids, we would put the sheet over our heads to keep everything scary away. Do you want to do that?"

"Yes, Charlie," Don faithfully believed him.

Charlie skillfully pulled the top sheet from the bed and tented it from the headboard, fastening two of the sheet's corners around the upper bedposts. Continuing to work in the narrow reading light, he guided Don to lay on his stomach under the sheet and scoot over to the center of the bed with Buddy, mindful of his brother's head; Charlie then slid in immediately next to him, dragging the books and light with him, billowing the thin sheet over their heads one last time and letting it drape around their prone bodies.

They lay there next to each other for several minutes, flat on their stomachs and propped up on their elbows, faces inches from each other, their hips and shoulders pressed against one another, the minimal radiance of the reading light casting shadows around them under the sheet. Charlie felt like a little kid again, and wistfully thought that Don should be there to protect him, not the other way around. He regretfully allowed the feeling to slip away, and reassumed his new role of big brother.

Charlie lifted the top book, peering closely at its blanched cover. Unable to read the words, he opened it to the story's first page and spread it out in front of them, gently maneuvering Don's elbow forward to hold open the left side of the book while his own lay on top of the right side. As they concentrated on the book and their tranquil proximity, they were no longer conscious of the storm that continued to war outside their flimsy shelter.

"I remember this book. 'There Was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly.' Mom"- catching himself, Charlie continued, -"Dad used to read this to us all the time."

Don heard who Charlie had referred to the first time. He realized he missed his Mommy and wondered if Charlie did, too. He also thought about how Mommy had left him at the doctor, wondering if she had left Charlie there, too, and if she did, would she be coming back for both of them?

With a low voice, Don asked Charlie, "You miss Mommy?"

Moisture engulfed Charlie's eyes because he knew Don was not referring to their real mother, and because discussing their mother's absence as if it were recent made it seem as if they had lost her a second time. Being careful with his words, he told Don, "Yes, I miss Mom."

"Will she come back?"

Charlie swallowed hard, clearing the lump that kept forming in his throat. "I don't think so, Don."

Don didn't believe Charlie was lying to him- maybe Mommy hadn't told Charlie she'd be back like she had told him, but Don couldn't be sure. He did feel that if Mommy took him he wanted Charlie to go with them; he believed his brother could keep the belt hidden from Mommy forever.

"You go with us?"

Charlie outlined the letters on the page of the book with his index finger, thinking about what Don was asking him. Sighing, he turned his head and stared directly at Don, who was wearing an anxious look on his face. "I don't think Mom is coming back. But what I do know for sure is that wherever you are, I am going to be there, too, taking care of you."

Don nodded his head, smiling with satisfaction at Charlie's answers, knowing he would protect him and never leave him; Charlie smiled himself, pleased because it was clear that Don wanted to be with him again. Cheered by the outcome of their conversation, they resettled their attention on the book, both their bodies and their hearts nearer and warmer to each other than they had been before their talk. Charlie began reading with a serious tone of voice, "There was an old lady who swallowed a fly…"

At first reading the faded words quietly and at an even, strict pace, Charlie slowly got into the folksong; he began to pick up speed and a beat, eventually singing the story from memory, emphasizing every other line with various silly voices, and jostling Don with his shoulder and hip each time he said 'that wriggled and wiggled and tiggled inside her'; he was smiling all the while at Don, who was obviously enjoying his performance, the movement of his feet back and forth and his own smile testimony to the fact. When he finished, Charlie was embarrassed to hear a giggle escape his lips, giddy with happiness and relief. Things had gotten better and he knew they would get better still- because he had his brother back.

Reaching for a second book, they were interrupted by the beam of a flashlight shining on the sheet.

"Donny, Charlie- are you okay? What are you two doing?" They could hear Alan's smile in his voice.

"Hiding from scary things," Charlie explained, both him and Don giggling this time.

"Uh, huh. As long as that doesn't include me."

"No, papa bear, you're not scary." Charlie lifted the end of the sheet, allowing Alan to see both his and Don's wide grins.

"Well, I see you've become friends."

Don nodded his head and wrapped an arm loosely around Charlie, who beamed in agreement.

"I'm sure there is an interesting story behind this?" Alan enquired, raising an eyebrow to Charlie.

Unexpectedly frowning, Charlie replied, "Yes, but we'll have to discuss that later. It is more _interesting_ than you think."

"Alright, in the meantime, the electric company predicts the lights will be out another hour. Do you guys have any ideas about how we can spend our time?"

Don and Charlie looked at each other, then at the books next to them. They moved over in unison on the bed; Charlie then opened another book while Don held up the sheet with the back of his hand to allow his father entrance underneath. Alan rolled his eyes and groaned a little as he squeezed himself between Don and Buddy, but he obligingly pulled the sheet over his head and shut his flashlight off, which allowed the amiable beam of the little reading light to shine most brightly on Don's face, accentuating his excitement; for the first time he felt he was completely safe and at home, just like Daddy had told him.

"Do you want to do the honors?" Charlie asked, sliding the book over to Alan.

Wedging his hand into his shirt pocket, Alan pulled out his reading glasses, put them on and opened the book in front of Don, he and Charlie gripping one hand on either side of the book this time, all three men bowing their heads over the first page of the story in concordance with one another, but with Alan and Charlie cautiously aware of Don's tender temples.

"Hmmm. Of course, 'Peter Rabbit.' I guess Buddy will like this one," Alan looked down at the stuffed toy. Don pulled him from between them, squishing him under his chest so Buddy's face was looking at the book.

As Alan was about to begin reading, the bedroom lights flickered on in an untimely manner. To Don's disappointment, Charlie slid out from under the sheet. Starting to follow his brother's lead, Don stopped short when the lights were extinguished, proceeded by the reappearance of Charlie next to him, who pulled the sheets back over them, once again providing their family a temporary refuge from the physical and human storms that raged against them. All three men wriggled and wiggled and tiggled momentarily in the bed, getting comfortable next to each other, then Alan began to read, "Once upon a time…"- the day, at least, ending 'happily ever after' for the first time in months for all three of the Eppes men.

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The stormed reigned outside the windshield of David's car. He sat across the street, watching the Eppes' house the best he could through the sheets of water that blurred his view. When all the lights on the block had gone out, he had been about to personally check on Don and his family when he saw a small light shine in the upper bedroom and the beam of a flashlight a little while later in the living room window. He decided to be prudent and had called the house, not wanting his appearance to upset Don; Megan had warned him and Colby that their arrest of Dr. Thompson had probably put all three of them at the top of Don's hate/fear list.

After speaking briefly with Alan, David had watched as a flashlight beam had appeared in Don's bedroom window. When the lights came back on a short time later, he had seen the lights extinguished in Don's bedroom, and had assumed the family had decided to return downstairs.

It was the third night that David was watching the house. He had the four o'clock to midnight shift, then came Colby's eight hour shift and finally Megan's. Merrick had subversively approved their shifts, mixing the paperwork in with some other obscure case, swearing the team to silence, as all were concerned for the safety of Don and his family. However, with their time newly occupied with protecting the Eppes, they were limited in their ability to work the actual case. None of them knew how long they could continue their watch, but they planned to do it as long as possible. Megan was convinced that Dr. Thompson had something up her sleeve, but after several brainstorming sessions, none of them could figure out what it could be, short of another kidnapping- but that seemed pointless, as she would be the first person they would look at.

David checked the time, then drank some more coffee. He watched as a car parked behind him, a teenage boy exiting and running swiftly through the rain across the street to a house two doors down from the Eppes. David tapped his fingers on his steering wheel, trying to stay focused. A large blue car drove slowly down the street, catching his attention. He kept his eyes on its steady movement, his right hand on the gun at his hip. The car sped up and then came to a halt, roughly pulling back into the spot directly in front of his car. His body tensing, David gripped the door handle, waiting in anticipation, unable to see the license plate of the Lincoln that was idling in front of him. He released pent up air when a young girl came bobbing out to the car, greeted by the car's driver, an older hippy-type, both people ignorant of the torrential rain as they kissed heavily upon meeting. Thoroughly soaked, they entered the car and sped off.

Laying his head back in relief, David still kept on his guard, observing a white compact pull from the driveway of the house on the other side of the Eppes'. He could not see if it had come from the house's garage because tall hedges lined the entire edge of the driveway, blocking his view from the sidewalk all the way up to the house. The car had been pulling in and out of there during different times of the day, and matched the description of the occupants' car, so it had not raised any concern in any of the team members.

However, if they had been allotted more men and been able to be more thorough in researching the Eppes' neighbors, they would have discovered that these occupants were often gone for days, both husband and wife retired and enjoying the benefit of being able to pick up and go whenever they wanted. Add to that mix automatic lights and a sprinkler system and no one noticed they were not at home, which is what the thin, middle-aged driver of the white compact had depended on.

Driving down the street, away from the federal agent who so obviously sat outside her son's home, the woman thought about how close she was to seeing her little boy once again.


	24. What I Gave You

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or any character therein. All characters are fictional and should not be associated with any other person, real or imagined.

Author's note: I have finals this week, so the next chapters won't be till this weekend. Sorry for the delay- I thought this was a good stopping point, as the next chapters get into the specifics of Don's rehab, some more of the criminal investigation, and, of course, Melinda's plan. I have had some time trying to coordinate this, and hope in the end it comes together correctly.

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The phone calls started about 7:00 am. Monday morning. Friends and family all calling to find out how Don's first days home had gone, after politely leaving the Eppes alone on the weekend, but not so politely calling so early in the morning. Alan was fielding the well-wishes as they poured in, quickly clicking from one call to the next as call-waiting signaled another person wanting to know if Don was doing alright. Charlie sat down at the dining room table, bemusedly listening to Alan defend himself to the latest caller-Aunt Irene.

"Yes, I have been taking good care of him." He listened, nodding his head, "Of course, we'll make sure he eats right; he's been on a special diet, and- and….No, I'm not letting him go back to work. He's on extended leave; his condition is more complicated than what we originally thought. Yes, of course, he has an appointment this morning." Alan quietly sighed to Charlie. "Yes, Irene, as soon as he's better, we'll make sure to bring him by. Thanks for the offer- I don't think we need anything right now, but I might take you up on it later. Bye."

Alan hung up the phone, this time sighing loudly to Charlie.

"Well, hopefully that's the last of them for now."

"You didn't give Aunt Irene too many details about Don."

"When the Bureau first found him and everyone wanted to visit, I made my explanations then; any other information about his condition we'll let Donny tell them later, if that's what he wants. They're just overexcited because we finally got him back, and want to see him."

"I was the same way- when I think of the celebration I wanted to have…" Charlie shook his head.

"Hey, I think we'll still have that special dinner- some day. By the way, Larry called. He wanted you to know he found professors for all your classes this semester _and_ next, if you need the time. The university sure seems to be going overboard for you, young man."

"It was that, or I threatened to offer my resignation. With the new alteration I made to the Eppes Convergence finally appearing in publication next month, and the free advertisement for the university that comes with it, they aren't about to let me go."

"You play dirty, Charlie." Alan smiled approvingly. "So, Donny is all dressed and ready to go?"

"Yes, I didn't have any difficulty with the bath or dressing him. However, it is not the easiest thing to shave another man; hats off to barbers everywhere."

"Well, I am quite skilled in that particular craft. We'll just have me do it from now on- as long as you'll keep giving him a bath."

Charlie's tone turned serious, as he remembered washing his brother. "I'm glad Don has to use bubble bath," Charlie observed quietly. "It made the water milky, so it was hard to see all those scars on his legs. It was difficult enough to look at them when I helped him get dressed- I don't like to think about how he got them."

Alan didn't like to think about that part of Don's kidnapping, either. He knew Dr. Thompson had explained them away, but he had never asked Megan how. He knew it would make him furious to hear what he was sure were paltry excuses for letting rats eat away at his son; instead, he assumed the worst from the evidence in the medical reports, believing she had purposely planned the deed, and allowed himself the benefit of another reason to hate the woman who had stolen his son. Alan walked to the dining room doorway, staring across the room at Don, thankful he had not had any nightmares since coming home, the nightly sedatives appearing to have done their job. Don sat sadly on the couch sucking his thumb and petting Buddy. "Does he understand where we are going?"

"I explained it again. He keeps saying he's hungry, though; can't we give him just a little…"

"No," Alan cut him off, ignoring his own desire to weaken and give in to Don's whining. "The test has to be on an empty stomach- no liquids, no solids. You should know better than to ask, Charlie."

"I know, I know," Charlie replied, slightly exasperated with himself. "He just looks like he's going to cry every time I say 'no'."

"In case you haven't noticed, he cries over just about everything."

"Yes, I have noticed," Charlie said defensively, "And I also understand it is a symptom of his anxiety, and because his emotional control unit has short-circuited, and it's a result of whatever the hell that woman did to him. It doesn't make it any easier for me to see him do it."

Alan went to Charlie and put his arm around his shoulder. "I know- I feel the same way. But we're going to have to tough it out. Otherwise, we'll never be able to do what's best for Donny."

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Don was scared again. The previous night, he had felt happier and safer than he had in a long time. After reading books, they had all watched baseball on television and finished putting his train together, Don watching intently while his brother and father had done the actual work. Over the evening, Don had felt more and more like he was where he was supposed to be and he would never leave. That is, until Charlie had explained to him before bedtime that he had to go back to the doctor in order to take a test and see two 'therapists'; they were going to help him learn to be like Charlie and Daddy- like a man. But Don remembered the last time he had tried to be a 'big boy' and how he had failed. He knew they would not punish him, but they would know for sure how bad he was at doing everything; Don didn't know why, but he knew he would feel terrible if he disappointed Charlie and Daddy.

Upon awakening that morning, Don's small anxiety had begun to blossom into more than concern that he might disappoint his family. Though Don had believed Charlie the night before when he had told him that he would always want to be with him, Don's mind was unable to separate the limited doctor's visit Charlie had described from his previous experience of being left for extended time at the institution by his mommy. His mind began overlapping what had occurred previously with what he had been told was going to occur, so that he could hardly distinguish the two. It was understandable, as the parallels were obvious: when he went to the doctor the first time, Mommy had told him that he was going there and explained why- just like Charlie; she had told him she loved him and would take care of him- just like Charlie; and she had promised she would come get him, only she never did.

And though Don now had a strong belief that Charlie loved him and wanted to take care of him, he continued to have a strong belief that Mommy loved him- yet she had left him and never come back. Don had learned to trust in his brother, but his mother's abandonment prevented him from learning to trust in his own worthiness to be loved, so it was simple for him to be scared that Charlie and Daddy would leave him at the doctor, too. Despite his underlying faith in Charlie, Don's confused mind began to identify a doctor's visit as the precursor to abandonment, and his newfound desire to be with his family made the prospect of leaving the house too stressful for his uncontrollable emotions. Don twisted Buddy's ear each time he thought about it, deciding he did not want to go to the doctor; he wanted to stay right where he was, so he would not have to risk losing his new family and home.

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Alan packed three bottles in a cooler; Don would be starting his diuretic that evening, so the plan was for them to be his last. Alan was only going to give him these three because of practical reasons. Don would be at the institute for the entire morning and early afternoon; he would be hungry after his test, and there would be little time in-between it and his next two appointments with the occupational and speech therapists. Alan knew he could quickly feed Don with the bottles for lunch, and then start him on solid food at dinnertime, when the change in routine would be less stressful for Don and the food could be properly prepared, as Alan anticipated it would not be what he was used to cooking.

Grabbing Don's binder, Alan went to get him while Charlie finished a call to Megan up in the privacy of Don's bedroom. Charlie had retrieved the ominous belt from the closet and was letting Megan know of his discovery that it was the instrument of Don's abuse; while Don had slept the previous night, he had given the same explanation to his father, who had expressed the desire to use it himself- on Thompson. Continuing his conversation with Megan, Charlie told her where he would place the belt before leaving the house, and emphasized to her if she could not come pick it up after all, someone needed to get it before they came home from the doctor. Don did not need to see it had been removed from the closet, as he might think someone planned to use it on him again. Megan agreed, telling Charlie it was her shift to watch their house and she was actually observing from down the street; she would wait to see when they left before retrieving the evidence, to avoid being seen by Don. They agreed that if no one else could discern the pattern of the belt in the vague pictures of Don's back, Charlie would come in later that week to show the team what he had been able to see. They further discussed Charlie's research into traumatic brain injury, and the algorithm he was working on to pinpoint what might have caused Don's injury; Megan enthusiastically affirmed that knowing what to look for would help them in their search for evidence against Dr. Thompson.

Downstairs, Alan cautiously approached Don. "Are you ready to go, Donny?" he asked quietly, standing directly in front of him.

Don looked down at the ground, gave a slight turn to Buddy's ear, and shook his head 'no.'

"Are you that scared, Donny?"

He nodded his head 'yes' slowly in response.

"Charlie and I will be with you the whole time. You can hold one of our hands, and we'll take it slow, so you know everything the doctor is going to do."

Don shook his head again. "You don't want me."

"What? Why would you say that, Donny? Of course I want you." Alan sat down next to Don, attempting to put his arms around him; but Don moved away and lay on his side, covering his face with Buddy while he started to cry.

"Don't want to go."

Charlie hopped into the room, satisfied with his call to Megan, his mood quickly changing to one of serious concern when he saw Don's position on the couch. "What happened?"

"I'm not sure," Alan told him, getting up from the couch and stepping aside to let Charlie talk to his brother, lowering his voice when he continued. "He said we don't want him. I think he believes we're taking him back to the institute for good."

"That makes sense," Charlie quietly replied, "considering it's what happened the last time he went there."

Leaning over Don, Charlie lifted up Buddy from his face. Charlie bit his lip when he saw the big tears soaking Don's face; it did not matter how many times he saw Don crying, Charlie knew it would always hurt him like a fresh cut in his soul each time he saw his brother expressing himself so despondently. "What's wrong, Don?"

Don shut his eyes in an attempt to hide, telling Charlie, "You don't want me."

"I want you to stay here with me, Don. But I also want you to get better. The only way that can happen is if you see the doctor. You want to do all the things you see me and Dad do, don't you?"

"I can't," Don informed Charlie. "No good."

Charlie began what was now a routine of massaging Don's shoulder and back. "Yes- you can, Don. You just forgot how to do them. Dad and I are going to learn how to teach you so you can remember. And eventually, you'll be as good at doing them as we are."

"No, I won't." Don was adamant.

"Yes, you will," Charlie was even more adamant. "Don, you don't remember, but a lot of the things I'm doing for you now, you taught me to do." Don opened his eyes in disbelief at Charlie. "It's true. Before you needed a doctor, when we were little, you tied my shoes, and put on my clothes, and helped me eat and… you protected me so no one could hurt me."

Don tried to believe what Charlie said was true- it was just too hard. He could not imagine he could have ever done those things for Charlie, especially when he could not do them for himself. Mommy said he was a little boy and he needed to be taken care of; everything Don knew about himself told him this was true. And protecting Charlie- how could he have done that, when he was always afraid and he needed _Charlie_ to protect _him_? If Charlie expected him to be able to do all those things at the doctor's, then maybe he _would _leave him there when he saw that he couldn't.

"Don't leave me," Don told Charlie, crying even harder.

"Shhhh. Please don't cry, Don. I won't leave you. I promise." Charlie was lost, not knowing what to say next. He knew that he and Don had bonded the night before, but he also knew his brother was not thinking clearly; it was apparent that Don did not understand the difference between this limited visit to the doctor and the last time he had been institutionalized. Charlie believed he just needed to find the right words, and Don would remember he trusted him- but Charlie was having trouble with that task. He found it distressing that Don was going through such an adverse emotional change from the night before, when he had been so happy and content; now, he was at the other end of the spectrum, miserable and afraid. Don's conversion from one emotional extreme to the other was taking its toll on Charlie, because his own mood was a reflection of whichever one he detected in his brother; the sudden shift was making him tired and deflated, and made it difficult for him to think.

Running a hand down his face, Charlie stopped midway, his fingers resting on his mouth. He again observed how Don clung to Buddy, the toy providing him physical comfort for his emotional turmoil and confusion; Charlie wondered if he could give Don some other tangible reassurance to cling to, something he could physically touch like Buddy, so it would continually remind him that Charlie would never leave him anywhere. "Don, what if I gave you something that is special to me, like Buddy is special to you? You'd never leave Buddy at the doctor's, would you?"

Don shook his head.

"What if I gave you something too special for me to forget or leave behind at the doctor's? Something I could never do without. You could hold it the entire time. That way, I couldn't leave you at the doctor, because I would be leaving it, too."

Don's crying slowed as he thought about Charlie's offer. He looked at Buddy, knowing that it was true- he would never leave him anywhere. Don decided that Charlie's idea was a good one. "Okay," he agreed, his tears starting to slowly dissipate and his anxiety to recede.

"Now," Charlie rubbed the back of his neck, trying to think what to give Don. "What do you think is so important to me I'd never leave it anywhere?"

It was Don's turn to think. He sat up on the couch and wiped at his tears with the palms of his hands. Looking at Charlie, different images flashed in Don's mind, whisking in like tattered shreds of faded film and blowing back out again: Charlie in an office, surrounding by white boards and computers; Charlie outside a building, writing on a clipboard; Charlie in a car, typing on a laptop; Charlie at the dinner table, talking with his hands waving through the air; Charlie kneeling outside, staring into a pond with fish; and Charlie in a room with blackboards hung all over its walls, grasping piece after piece of chalk in his hands, writing numbers…

"Chalk." Don whispered.

"Chalk?" Charlie looked at his father. Alan smiled, crossing his arms and saying, "_I'm_ not surprised he made that association with you."

"Chalk." Scratching his head, Charlie turned back to Don. "Chalk _is_ useful to me. I _need _my chalk to write all of my numbers. And I would _never_ leave it anywhere. So, I agree that it is _very special_ to me, just like you are, Don. I'll go get it for you." He jogged to the garage, coming back to the living room with three broken pieces of chalk held out in his hands. "Stand up," he directed Don, "and I'll put it in your front pocket." Don did as he was told, not taking his eyes off Charlie's hand while he slid the three pieces of chalk into his front jeans pocket.

When they walked towards the front door, finally leaving for the doctor, Don let Charlie hold his right hand, while he pressed his left one against the hard bumps under the fabric of his jeans pocket, rubbing his palm over them back and forth to make sure they were really there. He felt more secure about seeing the doctor with the chalk in his pocket. When he did everything badly, and his family saw how worthless he was, at least Charlie would have to take him home if he wanted his chalk back. Don was confident Charlie would continue to want it, because, unlike himself, it was useful to him.

Charlie would be disappointed, though, Don thought sadly, because if holding the chalk meant he would never get left behind and could always stay with Charlie and his daddy, then, Don had decided, he was never going to let it go.


	25. How We Examined You

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs, or the characters therein. All characters are fictional and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

Author's note: I made a couple modifications in the exam part of this chapter- gave them lead vests, had Olivia feed Don during the exam, and mentioned an E test, amongst other things. (thank you Alice) I spend a lot of time on research, but it is all written, so it is possible to acquire info that is not as accurate as it should be. Sometimes people who actually perform the actions have more info and point out mistakes, so I gladly modify. If, however, you have read this chapter, you will not have to reread it. _The gist of the exam is the same_. The speech and occupational therapy that is coming up is right from the horse's mouth, so I should not have any problems there.

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"Kenneth- it's Melinda. I know it has been a while, but I need to talk to you."

"Melinda…It's, uh, good to hear from you, too. I heard about Randy- let me offer my condolences. How have things been for you?"

"I can't say that it hasn't been lonely. But I recently started a relationship with someone who has become a very important part of my life."

"That's nice to hear. It's hard to find someone new, especially when you had a relationship that spanned over three decades like yours and Randy's did. If I ever lost Susan…I just don't know what I'd do."

"You two have been through a lot."

"Yes… yes we have. In the end, love conquers all and every other euphemism you can think of that applies to our situation. But enough about me already- I'm sorry, but I have to get back by one o'clock. May I ask why you've called? Is there something I can do for you?"

"Well, I think so; it isn't too much really. I just need some speed applied to a set of papers I'm filing. I know that normally these things take a little time, but then again, I also know that timelines can be altered- you just need to know the right people."

"And I am one of these right people, huh?"

"Well, of course, Kenneth. Otherwise, I wouldn't bother to ask."

"I don't know Melinda. I've been in the legal system for over twenty-five years and it has taken me a lot of hard work to build an image of character and ethics. I am not sure if I want to do something that might sully that image in the views of my colleagues."

"It is perfectly legal, Kenneth. I'm just asking for placements on the court calendar- the sooner the better."

"Hmmmm… Look Melinda, I'll have to think it over. I'm nearing retirement and don't want to leave on an uneven note- whether it's legal or not. How 'bout I give you a call next week?"

"That's much too late, Kenneth."

"Then I guess I can't help you."

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that, Kenneth- so _terribly_ sorry. Well, give my regards to Susan."

"I will Melinda. Now, if there is nothing else?"

"Not that I can think of for _myself_."

"Then I must say goodbye."

"Oh, okay…

Silence.

"By the way, my _dear, dear_ Kenneth, did Susan ever find out about that little tryst you had with your secretary last summer…?"

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Megan, David, and Colby were meeting briefly at the bureau office Monday morning. Once the Eppes had left to take Don to his therapy appointments at the institute, Megan had snuck into their house and grabbed the belt that Charlie had left for her in the upstairs bathroom. She had then taken it back to the Bureau and dropped the item off at their forensics department.

The three members of Don's former team sat around a conference room table, discussing the belt and the implications of its use, shuffling through pictures of their friend's back that had been acquired from Dr. Wang through the previous court order.

"Well, obviously he hadn't been hit with it for a while," Colby noted, staring intently at a close-up of Don's lower back. "I really can't say I see any marks. Maybe we need to take some better pictures- I don't know if a jury will see anything either."

"Well, hopefully forensics will find Don's DNA in the seams of the belt- that might be enough to make circumstantial evidence." David pointed out. "The question we need to answer now is - why not? Why hadn't Don been hit for so long?" David directed his question to Megan as he leaned back in a chair, not wanting to look at any of the photos of Don again. He had known Don the longest, and had been friends with him for some time before his fellow team members had come together. Surprised at himself, he was beginning to realize that this case was starting to affect his objective judgment; seeing the abuse that had been afflicted upon his friend, and knowing the pain he was currently going through along with his family, David was losing the little control he had over his personal desire to pummel Dr. Thompson, his thoughts often straying to a mental image of himself committing the act. With this realization of his heightened emotional entanglement in the case, the young agent decided it was best to stick to written facts and allow his partners to peruse any photos he thought might push him over the edge; he did not think it would help Don's case if he went after Thompson without the necessary evidence to support him, especially if he became physical with her. What he did not know was that his hidden desires were also surfacing in Colby, who had seen enough abuse inflicted on fellow soldiers when at war- but who believed that what he had previously experienced was less personal. For the two male team members, this case was developing a goal of revenge instead of justice, and they were both privately struggling against that demon.

"I think that it is easy enough to explain," Megan answered, "Don learned to obey, and no longer needed to be punished for oppositional behavior. Everything we have read in his reports from Dr. Wang indicate that he believes he is the son of Dr. Thompson and that he has been following her strict routine without resistance. These stringent behaviors clearly show that he was being so completely obedient to her that she no longer had to physically abuse him for some period of time before we found him."

"Okay, I'll buy that," Colby said, picking up another photo. "But what about these rat bites? If he was so obedient, why did she decide to do this to him? I mean, the belt was bad enough- but this seems like it was a one-shot deal. And quite frankly, I think it's also a little over-the-top."

David suddenly sat up, snapping his fingers. "Thompson used the rats because Don did something she had told him he _absolutely _could not do- something that was so detrimental to her keeping him that she had to _really_ punish him"-

"Because it was the one thing that would take him away from her," Megan continued excitedly, grabbing the picture Colby was holding and putting it on a stack of similar photos." Like letting a stranger see him and telling him"-

"His name," Colby finished for her.

"Bob." They all three said together.

"This is good- real good," Colby said. "We have an assumed date for when he got these bites- probably the day he talked to Bob, or maybe the one right after."

The agents began gathering all the pictures of the rat bites on Don's legs, sliding them and the physical notes about them into a separate yellow envelope.

"Dr. Thompson said Don got them by accident," David commented. "If forensics can backtrack them, tell us how old these scars are"-

"And if they can prove they were obtained on or about the day that Don talked to Bob, we can conjecture that Thompson purposely released them on him for his interactions with the old man- a premeditated assault to teach him he better _never_ talk to another stranger," Megan noted.

"What a hell of way to teach a lesson!" David stated angrily, shoving the last of the pictures into the envelope and then handing it over to Megan.

"I'll take these to forensics and we'll just have to wait to see what they can tell us. Before we break up for the day, have we made any progress into Dr. Thompson's personal life?"

Colby updated Megan on his investigation. "So far, it doesn't seem like she has seen many people since her husband died, but we are slowly tracking down her former colleagues and talking to them. Nothing they have said so far gives us any clue as to why she would kidnap and torture Don- she has spent over fifty years being a respectable and well-behaved citizen. They just emphasize that she seemed to become very depressed when her husband became sick and eventually died."

"However, we do have two lines of inquiry we are following that might remotely connect Thompson to Don," David said. "One_ is_ her husband; he died at about the same time Margaret Eppes died- both of them from cancer. We're looking to see if maybe they shared the same doctor or attended the same support groups, anything that might tie them together. The other lead we're following is the statement Bob gave us that Thompson was pregnant when she first moved next door to him- it would have been about the same time that Margaret Eppes was pregnant with Don. We're trying to track down people who knew her at that time- she and her husband were staying at a commune the summer after moving to Alta Sierra and we think we found the woman who used to run it. Or rather, still runs it. Seems she turned it into an organic farm. There's a chance she may remember Thompson. I have a gut feeling that we need to find out what happened to her baby."

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Charlie and Alan were listening to the radiologist, Alyce Rochelle, explain the exam that Don was about to take. They had arrived at the institute over fifty minutes earlier, and had signed in to outpatient services before being directed to the radiology department. The forty-something woman had greeted them with a pleasant smile, leading them to a small room where Charlie took Don to change into a hospital gown while Alan and Alyce waited outside, quietly talking about the weather. It had taken Charlie almost half an hour to talk Don into putting on the gown; he finally realized the problem was that Don would not have anywhere to hold the chalk he had given him. Improvising, Charlie had grabbed some adhesive tape he found in a cabinet and had taped the chalk to Don's skin, under the left side of his boxers.

Now, they were all in the examination room, Don sitting in a chair as Charlie and Alan stood near Alyce, listening to her simple explanations.

"It is called a modified barium swallow. I know Dr. Wang already described the exam to you, but I like to go over it one last time before I start the procedure. Barium is a material that shows up on x-rays- along with a person's skeleton, it looks white while the rest of the 'picture' appears black. We are going to feed Don several liquids and solids of different consistencies, all laced with the barium. As he takes the food into his oral cavity and then swallows it down his esophagus, we will be able to see the progress of the food. This will allow us to determine if he has any difficulties with orally preparing his food- that is chewing it and putting it into position to be swallowed; or if he has any difficulty propelling his food down his esophagus into his stomach."

"So," Alan asked, "You are going to be taking x-ray pictures every few seconds to capture the progress of the food?"

"I'll be taking still pictures at every stage of swallowing, but this machine allows us to produce a video picture that shows the actions as they occur." Alyce led them to the examination table. It was a long, white, solid examination table, with a square projection connected to and shooting up from one end. Immediately next to the table sat a thick white arm on wheels. It ran perpendicular to the floor, curving at its top to proceed to a flat panel almost a foot thick, several feet in length and a couple in width, a large bulbous piece of machinery projecting from its top. The panel hung above about a third of the exam table, with six lead flaps hanging down on the side opposite the arm; the patient would be enclosed between the thick arm on his left and the flaps on his right, the panel above him.

Placing her hands on the large panel and the large cylinder connected on top, Alyce told the Eppes, "This is a fluoro tower- we're actually performing a fluoroscopy. We'll be projecting a continuous stream of radiation at Don so that we can see a moving picture of him swallowing."

At the head of the exam table, against the wall, was a television monitor. Alyce pointed to it.

"We will view Don's swallowing up on that monitor. The whole procedure takes no more than ten minutes. We will begin when his speech therapist arrives; I will control the machine, she will guide the examination and conduct the evaluation. If she detects any problems, she'll either teach him how to improve his swallowing or she'll recommend further testing, maybe sending the exam results to be reviewed by a neurologist. Do you have any questions?"

"Can we stay in the room with Don?" Charlie asked, concern apparent on his face.

"Yes. It is actually preferable to have familiar faces present when the patient is anxious, but you will have to wear full lead vests to protect yourselves." Alyce, Alan, and Charlie all looked over at Don, who fidgeted in his chair.

Alan returned his attention to the radiologist and asked, "Won't he choke if he lies down and tries to eat?"

"We'll probably raise his head at a slight angle. But he needs to be lying down for the second part of the exam- we don't want gravity to help him. We want to see how effective his swallowing ability is all by itself. Don't worry- we'll keep an eye on him. Anything else?"

Charlie and Alan shook their heads.

"Well," the radiologist finished, "I'm going to see if Olivia is here."

Sitting down on either side of Don, Charlie and Alan began to explain the examination to him. After five minutes, Alyce reentered the room with Don's speech therapist, Olivia Matteson. She was in her early thirties with short blond hair and a thin athletic body. Both women stood quietly while they watched the two men talk to the patient who now sat between them.

The patient himself was pouting, ignoring everything that was being said. He was hungry, and more importantly, upset in the break in his morning routine. He was also chilly, as the hospital gown Charlie had talked him into wearing allowed the coolness of the air to filter up his semi-exposed spine while he sat on the plastic chair. Clutching Buddy, Don kept his thumb in his mouth as he obstinately shook his head 'no' to everything his father and brother told him he would have to do. Sighing, Alan looked at the other people waiting in the room.

Olivia and Alyce patiently waited another twenty minutes while Charlie and Alan talked to Don. Olivia had carefully read her patient's records and had decided it would be good to allow his family to try to explain the test to him. However, as time was passing quickly with no cooperation from Don, she was beginning to think that she and Alyce would have to take control of the situation. On the other hand, Alyce had decided the moment she had seen Don that someone needed to make him lie down and take the test- explanations were obviously pointless, she felt, as she observed his thumb sucking and the stuffed toy he held. Children, she thought, need to be told what to do- not asked. She looked at Olivia, holding up a wrist and tapping it lightly. Olivia nodded in confirmation, and walked to the other end of the room, preparing the materials she would need for Don's exam.

Charlie and Alan looked to their right as Alyce approached them. "I'm sorry, but we really need to get started."

"We can't seem to get him to budge," Charlie apologized.

"That's okay- just go stand at the examination table, over near the end in front of the television monitor. We'll be right there."

Alyce stood directly in front of Don, who tried to look around her at the retreating figures of Charlie and Alan. Trembling, he stared up at the radiologist, who put her hands on her hips and directed an authoritative but compassionate stare towards him. "Now, young man, we are going over to where your father and brother are waiting for you. Let's go." She put out her hand and gently took Don's arm, pulling him to his feet and carefully guiding him to where his family and speech therapist waited for him.

"Alright, honey, I need you to lie down on this bed," Alyce told Don in a neutral but firm tone. She patted the examination table behind Don, and then bent over to lift his feet, maneuvering them up and over. In response, Don instinctively lay back on the table, starting to cry as he confusedly tried to look for his father and brother.

Charlie and Alan quickly began to offer consolation and calm him down, standing on either side of Don. Both men regretted the necessity of the examination. Alyce and Olivia slipped on lead vests, and then helped the Eppes men into two of their own, pulling lead gloves over one of each of their hands. This would allow them to each hold one of Don's hands during the test.

Once Don had quieted, Alyce stood next to him and began to position his limbs. She put his legs together flat on the table and lowered his arms next to his sides. Don lay quietly, keeping his eyes on Charlie's, whose gaze did not waver from his brother's. Alan stroked Don's hair. While Alyce tried to maneuver Buddy down from his arm to his hip, the toy became caught in a seam on the exam table. She twisted the rabbit until he was released, but a miniscule tear appeared in the rabbit's bottom in the process. Don's face scrunched up when he saw the damage to the rabbit, but Alan soothingly told him Buddy had only received a scratch and he would patch him up as soon as they went home. Reluctantly, Don allowed Alyce to squish the rabbit between his upper thigh and left hand, Don affectionately petting the toy to offer condolences of his own.

After positioning Buddy next to Don, the radiologist placed the exam table and Don in an upright position for the first part of the exam, placing the flat panel of the machine in front of his face, and then she turned on the television monitor. While Olivia pulled a cart up with various liquids and foods, Alyce noticed Don had snuck his thumb up to his mouth. She lightly grasped his hand, pulling it away from his mouth and laying it flat on his side again, covering his lower body in a lead blanket.

"Now, there will be none of that, do you understand?" Alyce told Don gently, who teared up again but sat still. After maneuvering Don again, she looked at Olivia and asked the speech therapist, "Is this the position you want him in?"

""That's fine." She turned to Alan and Charlie. "Before we start, I'd like to ask if you have seen any problems when Don tries to swallow."

Alan answered, "I suppose you know the only thing he has been eating- really, drinking, is liquid supplement?"

"Yes. The staff notes state he did not appear to have any difficulty swallowing the thick liquid. However, they noted that he almost choked when trying to give him pain pills. I believe they began crushing them after that. Have you continued to do the same?"

"Yes," Alan said. "I didn't notice him choking on the pieces of the pills…though he does seem to cough after I give them to him."

"Coughing while eating can be an indication of swallowing difficulties. Dr. Wang told me that Don did not want to chew any food he was offered during his stay here- he ended up spitting it out. That, along with his choking on the pain pills, made him think Don might not be able to swallow solid foods. That is why he has to take this test- we want to see exactly if and where he needs help."

Olivia pulled a tray to the exam table. "We're going to have Don eat foods of different textures, from thin liquid to solid food. All of them are laced with barium and will show up on the monitor behind you." Alan and Charlie stood on either side of Don, offering soothing words and stroking his hands with their own gloved ones.

Olivia began by having Don sip a thin liquid through a straw. As Don sipped different thicknesses of the liquid, Olivia maneuvered him and the lead covering to different positions during the test, at one point have him say the letter "E" loudly after swallowing a thick liquid.

Alyce was standing in front of the fluoro tower, moving about to manipulate its controls and to change the film cassettes that were taking the still pictures. Olivia's eyes moved back and forth between the monitor and Don as she continued the examination. At one point, she lowered the exam table flat, and again moved her patient about as more pictures and video were taken of him swallowing. Charlie and Alan watched in fascination as the liquid and food appeared on the video as a white mass, moving between the x-ray of Don's white teeth and then following a path down his esophagus, his spine a white rod in the background.

They continued with the examination, moving from giving Don the thin liquid to one thick like a milkshake, then food of various textures, starting with one that was like paste. All the while, Alyce moved the fluoroscopy machine to accommodate whichever view Olivia requested. In between each new food, Don would slip his thumb in his mouth and Charlie would chastise him, telling his brother not to do it again, but knowing he was fighting a losing battle; he was aware that habit and anxiety were Don's reasons for sucking his thumb, and Charlie was not there to solve either of those problems right then.

It did not take long to arrive at food that had to be chewed. Olivia offered a tiny spoonful of ground food to Don, who nervously took it in his mouth and moved it ineffectually between his teeth before swallowing it. Unfortunately, the food stuck in his throat and his body reflexively tried to thrust it out, but it could not do so efficiently. Alyce moved the panel down the exam table to Don's feet as Alan and Charlie helped him to a sitting position. Olivia quickly stepped in and began to massage Don's neck with her index finger and thumb, pulling down on his throat, which helped to clear it. Wrapping his arm around Charlie and laying his head on his shoulder, Don began crying.

"No good. No good," he hoarsely whispered.

"It's okay, Don." Charlie soothed. "You're doing a great job. But we have to finish?" Charlie looked questioningly at Olivia.

"Yes," she replied. "We do have to finish. Why don't you take a bite of the solid food along with Don and show him how to chew it. Then, we'll see how well it travels down his throat."

It took several more minutes for Charlie and Alan to get Don to lie back down. Alan guided Don's hand to Buddy and pressed it against him to increase his feeling of security. Charlie then took a small bite of the solid food, holding it in his mouth before Olivia gave a small bite to Don.

"Now watch your brother, Don," Alan told him.

Charlie opened and shut his mouth in large, expressive movements, making sure Don could see the food being ground in his mouth. Don tried to imitate him, slowly moving his jaws open and shut, but not fully extended. Charlie swallowed, then Olivia opened Don's mouth with her fingers and checked to make sure the food had been chewed to her satisfaction.

"Okay, Don- you can swallow."

Don shut his eyes and swallowed; again, the food stuck in his throat, but Olivia was ready. She immediately began pulling on his throat again and the food passed through after a couple small coughs came from Don, who anxiously put his thumb in his mouth and shook his head 'no' while he looked to Charlie- making it clear he was finished with the exam whether they said he was or not.

Olivia smiled. "You're all done. You did a very good job, Don. We are very proud of you."

Don looked at Charlie and Alan for their approval as he was helped from the table, and they removed their gear. They reiterated what a good job Don had done, and that they were also proud of him. Charlie added that he could never have done as well as Don, and that he was very brave to have finished the exam. Don smiled, rubbing the chalk under his hospital gown, making sure it was still taped to his side.

"Let Don get dressed and I'll meet you at my office," Olivia told them, writing notes on a clipboard.

Alan held the door as Charlie led Don by the hand from the exam room. As they were about to exit, Don stopped in the doorway. He turned Buddy over and looked at the tiny tear in his bottom. His last act before leaving the examination room was to look at Alyce and give her his meanest-looking scowl.


	26. How We Would Help You 1

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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Olivia sat in her office chair waiting for Don, Charlie, and Alan to arrive, writing down the rest of her notes before scanning them into her computer. The still x-rays from Don's exam were waiting in the viewing room located next to her office- a central location shared by herself, two neurologists, and the radiologist.

The Eppes men were at the exam/dressing room located down the hall from Olivia. Upon entering, Charlie pulled Don's hospital gown off and slowly, carefully un-taped the chalk from under his boxers, putting the three pieces into Don's jeans in full sight of his brother, who was now sitting on a couch against the wall, wearing nothing but his boxers and socks. Alan stood patiently to the side, enjoying how his youngest son had immediately taken control of Don's care; he was proud that Charlie had not only kept himself from the security of his numbers and garage, but had been by Don's side almost continuously since they had first bonded.

Grabbing the t-shirt neatly folded on the exam table in the middle of the room, Charlie approached Don. Charlie tried to pull the shirt over Don's head, but was unsuccessful as Don kept moving his head about. "Sit still," Charlie ordered, again trying to slip the shirt on, but every time he attempted to place the stretched opening over his head, Don bobbed to the right or left, thwarting Charlie's efforts.

"Hungry." Don demanded. He looked at his father expectantly, a look that Charlie followed with a shrug of his shoulders as he tossed the shirt back on the exam table.

"Okay, okay" Alan gave in, reaching for the cooler bag he'd brought and handing it to Charlie. "I'll go talk to Olivia, you feed Don- then get him dressed. He can't be walking around the institute in nothing but his drawers."

Alan left the room, shaking his head. The doctor may have diagnosed that Don was limited in his ability to make decisions, but somehow he was still able to showcase his natural stubbornness in confronting situations he did want to participate in- and seemed to end up getting his way.

Charlie moved close to Don's left side on the couch, pressing their thighs together and opening the cooler to take out the bottles. After releasing air from each one, he put his right arm around Don's back for balance, and held a bottle to his brother's eager mouth with his left hand. Don sank against Charlie, his left arm loosely crossing his back while his right one circled Charlie's waist, Buddy squeezed between them; Don's body was oddly folded up as he laid his head on his younger- and shorter- brother's shoulder, his eyes shut while he drank, his face turned upwards toward and under Charlie's chin, while the bottle rested across Charlie's neck, expertly tilted so Don could be as comfortable as possible. Slowly, Don curled his legs up onto the couch, resting his body on Charlie. The brothers sat quietly, each lost in his personal thoughts.

Charlie was listening to the sound of his brother's light sucking sounds, no longer bothered by them. He could feel the heat coming from the breath Don panted through his nose onto his chin, the rhythmic thrust of air tapping a pattern on his skin that relaxed Charlie as he sank deeper into the couch, pulling Don with him. Taking a deep breath, Charlie could smell the baby powder he had dusted Don with earlier in the day, right before dressing him, along with the slight hint of soap from the bubble bath Don had taken; instinctively, Charlie planted a small kiss on his brother's forehead, smiling when he saw Don's eyes ripple open briefly before contentedly closing again. Relishing the warmth of Don's bare skin against his arm, Charlie wondered if this was what it was like to hold a baby- the touch of warmth and silky-soft skin, the smell of talcum and bubbles, a slack and innocent face to look upon, sounds of nourishment being received, the taste of clean skin that lingered after a kiss, the desire to love and protect that filled the heart and every moment of life; if this was what it felt like to have children, Charlie finally understood why his father so desperately wanted his sons to have some of their own. Sighing, Charlie fell further into his cuddle with Don, feeling a twinge of regret that these would be the last bottles he could feed Don, but knowing it was for the best; replacing the first bottle with a second, Charlie unconsciously began to hum a lull-a-bye their mother used to sing them, offering comfort to both Don and himself as his brother continued to drink.

Don was lost in the warmth and strength he felt in Charlie's arms. Leaning his body further into Charlie's, Don did not tremble or shiver. Within his brother's embrace, he felt secure, and did not think any specific thought but focused on obtaining the nourishment that was offered and the sanctity he found whenever they were together. His mind shut down, his conscious thoughts overcome with his emotions and senses: the fear that was replaced by calm, the doubt that was replaced by confidence in Charlie and almost anything that he told him to do, the love that he felt for his brother that was developing into a dependence on him, the sadness of losing his mother starting to be replaced with a careful joy that he had found another family, the desire to please; and then the physical senses that assaulted him- the smell of his brother's aftershave as he breathed in and out, the warmth of Charlie's body wrapped around his own while the soft hairs on his brother's arm tickled his back, the sound of humming that filtered into his ears and touched a memory that he could not quite reach, the smiling face that looked down at him with kind and understanding eyes, and the taste of sustenance that flowed down his throat, offered by a loving and nonjudgmental hand. But, sadly, through it all, the underlying need to have his mommy holding him and taking care of him, her absence still undulating through his heart.

After Don finished his last bottle, Charlie allowed him to rest for a few minutes. Charlie did not want to get up himself, but his natural curiosity took over and he knew he wanted to hear everything that Olivia had to say about Don and any problems that he might have. So, reluctantly, Charlie nudged Don into a sitting position and began the task of getting him dressed. Though Don no longer resisted Charlie, he was beginning to fall asleep and it took a lot of effort for Charlie to put on his clothes, as he was working with what had essentially become dead weight.

"Come on Don, sit up so I can pull your shirt down," Charlie begged, but Don just leaned against the back of the couch, looking at Charlie through half-closed eyes and sucking his thumb. Charlie had managed to put Don's head and left arm through their openings, but Don's thumb sucking prevented him from placing the right arm in. Giving up on the shirt, Charlie grabbed Don's jeans and pulled them up his legs to his knees; he put Don's tennis shoes on, lifting his feet up just enough to get his feet in. After tying them, he stood in front of Don with his chin resting in the cup of his left hand, his right arm crossing his belly. "Hmmmmm," he commented, looking at Don's half-dressed condition. "This is a lot easier when you're awake and helping me." Don responded by closing his eyes all the way and starting a slow descent in an effort to completely lie down on the couch. "Oh, no you don't!" Charlie exclaimed, quickly sitting next to Don and gently pushing him back into a sitting position.

Refusing to give up, Charlie sat on the front edge of the couch, wrapped his arm around Don's back and used his leverage to lift Don to a standing position. Don waved back and forth before Charlie steadied him with an arm around his waist. "Don! Don! Wake up!" Charlie received a pouting frown, but was pleased to see that Don had opened his eyes. "You have to stay awake just a little longer- can you do that for me?" Hesitating at first, Don finally consented, nodding his head weakly. "Okay, we have to get you dressed. Put your arm on my back while I pull up your pants." Don did as he was told, leaning so heavily on Charlie that the younger Eppes groaned inwardly. When he had Don's pants zipped and buttoned, he stood up and carefully took Don's thumb from his mouth. Before Don could protest, Charlie efficiently pulled Don's right arm through his sleeve and pulled down his shirt, smoothing it at the bottom edges. Don's thumb popped back into his mouth.

Charlie checked the room for any of Don's other possessions, slung the cooler over his shoulder, placed Buddy under Don's left arm, and slowly led his brother down the hall to the speech therapist's office.

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"I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever get here," Alan greeted his two sons.

"Someone is a little sleepy," Charlie explained. Olivia went to a television and DVD that faced an overstuffed loveseat; she turned on a cartoon and indicated that Don could sit on the loveseat quaintly situated in the corner of the room. By the time Charlie stood behind his father, who was sitting in one of the two chairs in front of Olivia's desk, Don had already fallen asleep, a bundled ball resting on the soft cushions in an awkward fetal position with Buddy pressed to his chest.

"I keep the DVD player for when I have younger patients. It keeps them occupied while I talk to their parents," Olivia explained. "I think he'll be alright if you both want to come next door with me to look at the results of his exam. We should be gone no more than five minutes."

Charlie and Alan followed her next door. A line of photos sat in lighted holders on the wall, each one a view of Don's mouth and throat at different angles.

"From what I can see, Don has three main problems when swallowing. The first two problems we see at the oral preparatory stage." Olivia pointed to one of the photos. "See, here, Don is not chewing his food correctly. This is one reason he is having difficulty swallowing- the bolus, or mound of food, is much too large to comfortably and effectively pass down his esophagus. The second problem is his tongue- it is getting in the way of his chewing, and he tends to push his food into the pocket of his cheek, away from his teeth; he needs to have more control over it. He can do exercises to solve both these problems."

Olivia walked to another set of photos, Charlie and Alan right behind her listening intently.

"Now, the last problem involves the esophageal phase of swallowing. Don is correctly passing food into the esophagus, but solid foods are not efficiently traveling to the stomach; instead, they are getting stuck." Olivia made quotation signs in the air when she said 'stuck'. "See, each time you swallow, the muscular wall of the esophagus repeatedly contracts and propels food down through to the stomach. Since there are no obstructions in Don's esophagus, then his motility problem may be caused by a restricted nerve supply to the esophagus' muscular wall or muscle weakness. I am going to have a neurologist look at his x-rays to see if further testing will be necessary. In the meantime, I believe you can use the stimulation and aiding technique I utilized with Don earlier, so that he may start eating solid foods immediately."

Olivia led Charlie and Alan back to her office. Once Charlie had checked on Don and was satisfied that his brother was sleeping peacefully, Olivia proceeded to lay out a therapy plan for her patient, speaking to the two men seated in front of her. Charlie sat rigid in his seat, his full attention on every word Olivia said, while his mind began organizing the information into neat compartments with cross-references that he would be able to access at a later date. It would be clear to any person that the efficiency of his genius was not limited to numbers.

"Let's start with the swallowing. As for the chewing, Don should have very strong muscles in his jaw."

"How is that possible?" Charlie asked. "He hasn't been eating for months- which means he hasn't been chewing. All his mouth activity has been limited to sucking his thumb and baby bottles."

Smiling, Olivia explained, "Actually, pursing your lips is a great exercise to strengthen the muscles in the jaws. All that thumb and bottle sucking should have developed Don's muscles, not weakened them."

"Then why can't he chew his food?" Charlie pressed.

"It may be a lack of coordination- moving the different parts of his mouth as one; we already see he has a problem with control of his tongue. But I think the overall cause can simply be attributed to lack of use. When he first received his injury, he may have found it difficult to chew, which probably assisted in his acceptance of drinking bottles; I'm not trying to make a psychological diagnosis, but it seems obvious that he is adverse to eating solid food. Over time, his muscles may have developed, but the up and down motions associated with chewing were not."

"And we solve this problem by?"

"By having Don _practice_ chewing. Like with any other set of muscles, the best medicine in developing its use is to exercise it. Don will need ten minutes of chewing at the beginning of five specified hours each day. You can decide which hours." Olivia pulled several large, rubbery-looking straws from a drawer in her desk. "These are chew straws. Have Don chew on them so he does not damage his teeth. You want him to open and shut his mouth, extending his jaw open as far as it can comfortably go.Take it slow- your goal is ten minutes, but he may only have the patience to do it one or two minutes at first."

Charlie and Alan handled the chew straws, and then gave them back to Olivia. She put them in a tiny bag that she left on her desk.

"When Don chews on the straws, you can have him look in a mirror; this will be a visual reinforcer for the behavior. It will also help prevent him from biting his tongue. In addition, each time Don eats, try to have at least one of the foods on his plate be one that _has_ to be chewed. Start with ground food and work your way up to ones that are completely solid."

"But he choked on the ground food," Charlie worried. He did not want Don to have to go through that experience every time he ate.

"True, but not so much when he ate the solid food, though the ground food should have passed through his esophagus more easily. The difference between the two times he swallowed was that _one-_we made sure Don chewed the solid food thoroughly, and _two-_ I used the stimulation technique on him more quickly the second time. You are going to use that technique each time Don eats."

Charlie and Alan looked at each other doubtfully. It seemed more and more like it would be safer to just continue feeding Don the bottles.

"Since Don is obviously tired, we'll let him sleep while I go over the rest of his rehabilitative requirements. After you finish talking to his occupational therapist, we'll all meet together so we can show you and Don how to use any assistive and therapeutic devices we give him- and we'll have Don eat something, so I can teach you how to massage his neck while he's swallowing so you don't have to worry he'll choke."

Olivia leaned forward in her seat, talking slowly and deliberately. "Now listen carefully- awareness of Don's frustration and energy levels is one of the most important parts of his therapy. If you try to make him do more than he can emotionally or physically tolerate, he may become oppositional and refuse to participate in his treatment. And patient participation is, of course, necessary for success."

Nodding her head toward the still-sleeping Don, Olivia continued. "Exams and therapy can be very exhausting. When Don wants to rest or even sleep, let him. You also need to make sure that Don has a set bedtime, wake up time, and a nap time- this will help make sure that his body is getting necessary rest, even when neither you nor he are aware that he needs it. This should be easy to do, as I read in the staff notes that he already has an established sleeping schedule."

"Actually," Alan admitted, "We were hoping to work on getting him away from that particular schedule."

"My advice to you is to keep it- for now. The speech and occupational therapy, along with the changes in Don's waking schedule, are going to be hard enough for him to adjust to. Eventually, you can change his sleeping schedule by adding or subtracting five minutes at a time, until you have him on the schedule you want. But it is extremely important that he gets a lot of rest. Therapy is a long and drawn-out process, and, again, the quickest way to come to a stand-still is to have a patient unwilling or unable to participate."

Olivia sat back in her chair. "Now that I've made that clear, let's discuss his tongue exercises. Don needs to practice moving his tongue- up, down, in, out, and side to side. Set up at least two regular times each day for him to practice, and then slip it in whenever you have a chance."

"Does he just stick his tongue out and move it?" Alan asked, nervously tugging at the knees of his pants.

"No. You have to give Don a purpose. Give him a Popsicle and have him lick it- but only using his tongue, not his lips. Or let Don lick the melted ice cream off the side of a cone- again, only using his tongue. For side to side movement, dab some peanut butter or other sticky food on either side of his face, and then have him try to lick it off. Sugarless suckers are also good. Really, he can use his tongue to lick anything that is in accordance with the dietary restrictions Dr. Wang gives you. Because this exercise involves taste and the immediate satisfaction that comes with it, you can slip it in by giving Don something to lick while he is doing other activities, like watching television, or reading."

"How do we assess when he has mastered his goals?" Charlie asked.

Olivia smiled. "I forgot you are a teacher, Professor Eppes. The objectives and goals are in the written instructions I will give you. For example, for the tongue exercises, our goal would be complete control of and fully expansive tongue movements; the objectives would include the individual movements, like moving the tongue side to side. One of his swallowing goals would be to pass the bolus without aide, and also without discomfort. Part of the assessment will always involve asking Don about his progress- does it hurt when he swallows, has he bitten his tongue when chewing, does it feel uncomfortable when he chews..."

"But Don isn't exactly talkative right now..." Charlie pointed out.

"Well, we are going to discuss that in a minute. Get yourself a timer so you can keep track of how long Don does each exercise; this will enable you to see his progress- or lack of it. Also, be observant; keep notes about how well he is performing each task. This is a simple but effective way of determining if he is progressing in his therapy. A last item might be a soft measuring tape to record how wide Don is opening his mouth each time he chews. Any questions?"

Alan stared at his hands, asking quietly, "You're sure we can learn how to keep Don from choking when he eats?"

"Yes, Mr. Eppes- I guarantee it."

Alan sat next to Charlie trying to comprehend the amount of work and time that would be required to help Don learn to eat solid food on his own again, nervously wondering if he was capable of meeting his son's needs. When Olivia began to talk about the other therapy that Don would require, Alan almost collapsed into the back of his chair, doubt in his own ability to help Don overwhelming him; then he felt a strong hand clasp his own. Looking to his left, he found Charlie smiling at him, a picture of confidence and reassurance. Squeezing Charlie's hand in return, Alan refused to let it go. He straightened in his chair and forced aside his fear for the magnitude of the tasks before them, refocusing his emotions on the satisfaction that would come from obtaining the goals. Never in his life had he felt so dependent upon his youngest son- and never had he been so grateful that the dependence was possible.

Addressing Charlie, Olivia said, "You state that Don is not talking very much?"

"No." Charlie and Alan answered.

"Well, part of my job description _is_ to help Don with actual speech therapy." Olivia smiled, receiving no smile in return from the men who sat in front of her. Sighing inside, she secretly hoped they would be able to find something to smile about over the next months, because she knew they were probably in for a lot of the disappointments and heartaches that always attached themselves to rehabilitative efforts.

"Don's speech articulation is clear despite his lack of jaw work. This is probably because we use less than 20 per cent of our jaw muscles when talking, and he is able to use enough to speak clearly. However, he does have a fluency disorder. He says simple sentences of no more than four syllables, then stops for long minutes before he will continue his thought."

"You mean his speech is very simple." Charlie said.

"Well, yes; he does not always talk in complete sentences, and they are never complex. In order to help him with this problem, make him say a full sentence. If he says 'Want that', then tell him to say 'I want that'. But do not overtax him- I know I sound like a broken record, but if he becomes frustrated or tired- _stop_."

"How do we track his progress?" Again the teacher in Charlie appeared.

"There is a simple method to track this kind of behavior. Fill your right pants pocket with a number of pennies- say, twenty at first. Each time Don says a complete sentence on his own, place a penny in your left pocket. At the end of the day, count how many pennies are in your left pocket and record them. It will take a while, but you will eventually need to put more pennies in your right pocket, and at some point will even switch to counting complex sentences. You can use this method for other behaviors- if you like, each one of you can record a different one."

"I'll be the penny-pincher for the sentences." Charlie finally offered the speech therapist a small smile to go along with his awkward attempt at a joke. Olivia was satisfied that the professor was beginning to relax, though she continued to worry about her patient's father. Alan's left eye was twitching from his attempt to keep his nerves under wraps, his failure apparent each time the corner of his eye spasmodically squeezed shut.

"To increase his fluency, Don will also need to receive cognitive therapy."

"I think I know what that is." Charlie wrinkled his forward while he thought. "We're just going to help Don with his problem-solving skills."

"Yes, and much more. Don needs to exercise his brain with _both_ basic skills and critical thinking skills activities. These things will help him develop and use a larger vocabulary, increase his ability to recognize problems and make decisions about them, help him control his emotions and behaviors, develop his ability to sequence, and most importantly, help him regain his memory. I have a few things I can send home with you, but I will also give you catalogues so you can buy other activities that you think will interest Don."

Olivia pulled out a set of small, square flash cards. Alan and Charlie sat forward in their chairs as she flipped through them; they could see that a simple household item was printed on each card, common things like a coffee mug, a broom, and a fork.

"First, Don should practice basic skills. You are a teacher, Professor Eppes, so I trust you can pick out a variety of activities that will interest your brother and will address his learning style."

"Yes," Charlie immediately chimed in, "I've always noticed that Don is a multi-sensory learner- he has always liked to have things taught to him through oral explanation, seeing someone else do it, and through hands-on experience." Charlie took the cards from Olivia, turning them over one by one. "But what if he recognizes all the basic items in this set of cards- and any others we use? And basic skills usually involves reading and math at lower levels- what if he knows those things, too? Should I just skip those things and go to the higher-level thinking activities? I mean, teaching Don basic skills might end up wasting a lot of time."

"No, don't think that way- pretend like you have all the time in the world, because it might just take that long."

Seeing the disappointed looks in their eyes, Olivia tried to reassure them, "I don't really mean it will take forever; I just mean that you can't start thinking that the little things can be rushed over or ignored."

Taking a card with a picture of a coffee mug on it, Olivia asked Charlie, "What is this?"

"It's a coffee mug." He started fidgeting in his seat. "See, I don't understand the point of asking..."

"What color is it?"

"Blue." He sighed.

"What does coffee taste like?"

"Well, I don't know...it's kinda bitter, and..."

"Do you drink coffee?"

"Yes, all the time at work."

"When was the first time you had a cup of coffee?"

"_I don't remember_...Wait, my mom let me have a sip when I was six."

"Where were you?"

"At my house." Charlie sat back in his chair, his eyes faraway as he pictured his mom standing at the counter in their kitchen. "We were in the kitchen, and I was complaining that I was old enough to drink coffee like her and Dad. She poured a little in a coffee mug and gave it to me. I remember thinking it was the nastiest stuff I had ever tasted."

"What did your mother smell like?"

"She...she...lavender..." Charlie stopped, the memory gone as he looked at Olivia. "Oh."

Nodding her head, Olivia knew she had gotten through to her student.

"Read a third grade book and ask Don if he remembers reading it before. Ask him for all the details he can remember. If the story is about a duck, ask him if he remembers seeing a duck somewhere else, or if he has a favorite animal. See if he remembers a pet, or if he had a favorite book when he was younger. Reminisce about everything you do- this is an activity that can be performed with the basic skills activities and during every type of interaction you have with Don, from playing a game with him to watching cartoons on the television. Go on and on- but only as long as Don will let you."

Charlie ascended to her reasoning. Olivia was correct, he thought, there would be no shortcuts.

"You also need to ask questions that pertain to sequencing. Ask Don if he knows how to _wash_ a coffee mug, and then try to get him to give you specific details- in order. Record all that he remembers about an item, and record the procedures that you ask him about, including any task that is out of order. You may find that he will say to clean a mug and put it away, but after probing that he can not remember that he has to rinse and dry it."

Olivia rearranged a few things on her desk and took a deep breath before beginning again. She threw off an odd feeling that had assaulted her from the first time she had looked into Professor Eppes eyes- the feeling that he was a leech and was sucking her dry of every bit of information that she possessed about his brother.

"You asked about basic math. Other than reminiscing, Don also needs the lower math skills practice in order to regain or relearn his higher level skills. Remember, all mathematics start with one plus one, and if you don't remember that, you can't go any further."

Olivia raised her eyebrows in surprise when Charlie snorted a laugh.

Rearranging the household items cards into a neat stack, she proceeded. "IfDon is a tactile learner, there are many ways for him to practice his letters and numbers by tracing them on different textures with his fingers. Those items can be found in the catalogues I will give you."

"Am I to understand that all this basic skills practice will help Don remember everything he learned before his, uh, accident?" Alan was not sure he understood all of the reasons for Don to be practicing letters and numbers.

"Well, there are two schools of thought. One is that the patient is _relearning _his skills; the other is that he is _remembering _what he learned before. In either case, the basic skills practice will help lead Don to higher levels of thinking and behaving- whether it is relearning or remembering, the goals obtained are still the same. And because Don is a multi-sensory learner, this will be especially true if we teach him using all of his senses. So, I will have to insist that you buy a set of textured materials and either scented candles or sprays. Feeling and smelling items can bring back memories that simple talking can not reach. If they are available, you can even use old clothing or toys from childhood to help bring back memories."

"We have some things. But unfortunately," Charlie said wistfully, "my dad gave away my mom's clothing not too long ago- I guess we could have used that to help Don remember her."

Alan tried to look innocent as his eyes leapt at the ceiling, but Charlie recognized his father's guilt quite easily and he opened his eyes wide in surprise.

"You didn't give it away, did you?"

"Now, Charlie," Alan stuttered, reluctantly facing him, "You've never been married, and you wouldn't under- hell, what am I apologizing for. It's a good thing I put it in that storage unit, because now we can use it to help Don."

Charlie shook his head, returning his attention to a puzzled Olivia.

"Hmm, well, uh, as for the critical thinking skills activities- uh, let's see- you can find a lot of software and bookwork that addresses this need, but you can also play games like Scrabble, Boggle, and Chess, as well as do puzzles- crosswords are good, so is Sudoku."

"Well, now," Alan said, his twitch smoothing out; he happily rubbed his hands together, some confidence returning. "I think I might just be able to handle a few of these activities after all."

"Daddy?"

Alan, Charlie and Olivia all looked at Don, who was slowly sitting up on the loveseat with a confused look on his face, his eyes slowly blinking. Both Alan and Charlie rushed to Don's side, the speech therapist's presence lost to them as they quickly wrapped Don in their arms and started soothing him. Olivia stood and stretched, putting a copy of her notes in with the file she had made with the details of Don's therapy.

"Ahem," she said loudly, drawing the attention of Charlie and Alan, Don still half asleep. Pointing to the clock on the wall, she informed them, "I think its time for your next appointment. We'll be meeting again later, so if you have any further questions, you can ask me then."

Each of them with an arm through one of Don's, Charlie and Alan thanked Olivia as they walked carefully out the door.

Olivia shook her head. All that love and gentleness- and all of them single.

Now, she thought, how could that even be possible.


	27. How We Would Help You 2

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person, real or imagined.

Author's note: Jim quotes 'All About Eve' with his reference to seatbelts. It must be my favorite movie.

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"Hi, I'm Jim Makinac. Today I will be your guide through the wonderful world of occupational therapy."

Alan, Don, and Charlie tried to focus on the mid-twenties man who stood bopping up and down on his heels in front of them, his irritatingly expressive energy tossing his neatly cut but mid-length blond hair about his broadly smiling face. His two hands continuously alternated between rubbing and quietly clapping together. While the occupational therapist talked, the light that beamed down from over their heads seemed to bounce off his large and perfectly-capped teeth. They were patiently standing in the institute's exercise and physical therapy room. A stream of brightness reflected off a large glass window set in the office wall in front of them; the window would allow any of its occupants a view of the equipment available to patients, including various weight-lifting equipment, exercise machines, large medicine balls, parallel bars, and thick mats. There was a hallway besides Jim's office that led to a large, Olympic-sized pool for full-body swimming and two smaller-sized ones for individual therapy, dividers partially encircling them to provide semi-privacy. Two lifeguards were always on duty, their seats positioned so they were afforded a view of all three pools. Two doors leading to locker rooms were set midway down the hall, one for each sex.

"We are entering a fascinating world of mystery and secrecy." Jim whispered, bending forward and popping his eyes back and forth between the men. "Come follow me, and we will begin our journey." He beckoned the men to his office with flailing arms. While the Eppes men hesitantly followed, Jim bounced into the room, dropping into a seat and then right back out again, shutting his office door when his guests were seated. Jim briefly sat on the corner of his desk, picking up a ball and tossing it twice in the air before doing a rim shot into a corner basket full of similar balls. His energy would not diffuse and he began pacing as he talked.

"Fine motor skills- that's what we're dealing with here. Don," Jim stopped and pointed at his patient, who was scrunched wide-eyed in a chair situated between his father and brother, "does not appear to have any gross motor skills problems. You know, he can walk and move his limbs all right, doesn't have any balance issues- he needs to rebuild some muscles, but other than that, we're not looking at major work- got it?"

Before he received a response, Jim continued pacing and talking, his hands in a perpetual massage mode with each other. "Now, our focus is on Don's ability to grip and move his fingers as one- a.k.a. fine motor skills. Oh, and social and life skills- definitely needs help with those. We'll even throw in some cognitive functioning, be a twin set with what Olivia's having you do. Let's take this one trip at a time, shall we- which road do you want to travel down first?" Pursing his lips, Jim stopped and stared expectantly at Charlie and Alan. They waited silently, not sure if the therapist actually wanted them to answer this time or not.

"Come now, gentlemen." Jim clapped twice, jumping up and down. "Speak up- your travel package is waiting- shall we visit fine motor skills first, or would you like a tour of life skills?" The therapist moved his body sideways, gesturing with his hands as if he were a model on a game show. "Our special this month is cognitive functioning- why, I do believe it's half price." Jim nodded his head enthusiastically. Don nodded his head, parroting the man; he smiled to himself, only somewhat mistaken in the belief that he was being entertained by a clown. His usual tendency to flee an unknown person was momentarily controlled by a childlike awe of the silly behaviors of the man before him.

"Ah, Don- are you all ready and packed to go?" Jim asked, dropping on the desk in front of his patient while he broadly wiggled his eyebrows. Don nodded his head again; he didn't understand what he was being asked, he was just enjoying the show. "Well, then, young man," Jim stood at attention, his voice suddenly stern while he saluted Don, "let's be all that we can be and take an air ride to our first destination. Ready to go, private?" Don smiled, continuing to be entertained by Jim's antics. Alan, however, was possessed with the distinct desire to pin the guy to the wall- _just long enough to keep that large head_ _from moving again_, he thought as he rose from his seat. At the same time, Charlie's natural energy bowed to the superior power; he obediently followed behind as Jim helped Don to his feet and led them to an adjacent room, Jim keeping his arms straight out to both sides and making a 'zoom' noise like an airplane.

Once inside the room, Jim dropped his arms to his sides. "All aboard!" he crowed, patting a seat at the head of a long table and crooking a finger at Don, who sat down anticipating more fun. "We don't seem to be prepared for our trip," he loudly whispered behind his hand, pretending that only Don could hear him. Charlie sat next to the table. Alan pulled his chair to a corner in an attempt to distance himself from the manic therapist.

"Where do you want to go first? This man's army goes everywhere- just pick a ride and I'll tell you where it's scheduled to go." Jim pointed to the twenty-odd items that were spread out on the table. Don looked at them, squirming in his seat before turning his attention to Charlie, his eyes asking him to choose. Jim saw the plea and maneuvered between the two brothers. "Why Don, just take your hand like this," Jim picked up Don's right hand and held it over the contents of the table, "and put it on one of the things you see on the table- anything at all." Jim nodded his head to encourage Don to make a decision. Charlie leaned around Jim as both he and Alan watched on the edge of their seats- this would be the first decision Don made in determining his own therapy and they felt it was an important step.

Don looked at the table, his hand wavering in the air. There were so many things and he found it impossible to focus on just one of them. He began to squeeze Buddy under his left arm while his left hand went to his ear, his fingers beginning to twist the soft skin nervously. Jim watched with interest.

"Well, soldier, it seems you have some natural talent there, now don't you?" Don looked up, his right hand still hovering over the table. Back on target, Jim continued to encourage Don. "Parachute drop!" Jim suddenly said, plopping his own hand down upon one item. Jim lifted his hand off the table, held it over another item and repeated the movement again. "Parachute drop!" Again, his hand landed on an item. Don watched, his own hand starting to twitch from the effort to keep it elevated.

Jim clutched Don's hand and moved it in circles above the table. "Round and round he goes- where he'll stop, nobody knows." Jim suddenly released Don's hand, throwing his own up in the air- "Parachute drop!" Without thinking, Don repeated Jim's previous movements, dropping his hand to the table. He cautiously looked up at the therapist, seeking approval.

Jim clapped his hands, and then went stiff, bending to Don and saluting. "Good job, soldier. We are finally on our way. This calls for a promotion- you are now a corporal." Don sat back and proudly smiled at Charlie and Alan, who quietly clapped with their own hands.

Pretending to hold a mike in front of his mouth, Jim made a buzzing noise with his lips before saying in a sing-song voice, "Please keep your seats in an upright position. Keep all hands and feet within the compartment- and whatever you do, _fasten your seatbelts, gentlemen- we're in for a bumpy night." _

Jim grabbed the item that Don's hand had fallen upon; it was a cylinder-shaped container. He popped open the lid, humming while he pulled out what appeared to be red-colored clay and dropped it in front of Don. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Our first destination today is fine motor skills. I hope you packed all your belongings- this may be a l-oooong trip."

Jim put the clay in Don's right hand, put his own hand over Don's, and began to squeeze the dough in-between their fingers. "In order for us to have a successful trip, it is important that we are trained soldiers. Boot camp training will involve strengthening our grip, coordinating the use of our fingers, and manipulating our wrist movement."

Jim quickly sidestepped to the other side of Don, who dropped the clay to the table. Picking up Don's left hand, Jim spoke in his soldier's voice again. "Corporal, you have good thumb and index finger control of your left hand. I think we'll make you a sergeant." Showing the digits to Charlie and Alan, Jim ooohed and ahhhed loudly; Don sat beaming in pride. "Have you noticed how he uses his left thumb and index finger to manipulate his left ear lobe?" Charlie and Alan told Jim that yes, they had noticed the ear manipulation. "Staff notes say he can use them to pull up lightweight sheets and his boxers- and in taking care of more delicate and private _needs_." Jim spotted Buddy's balding ear. Knowing that Don's tugging was the guilty culprit and that the manipulation had an emotionally stabilizing effect on him, Jim cocked one eye at the rabbit and told Don, "Well, now, it seems we have another _foot _soldier available to help us on our mission." Jim flopped Buddy's left foot. Don nodded, knowing that Buddy would always help him. "I think we'll give him the same rank as you- that way, you can keep working together." Don nodded again. He absolutely did not understand the specifics of what Jim was saying, but he recognized the encouraging and flattering tones that came from the therapist, as well as some specific words- ones like _good job_, _help us_, _successful_, and _together_. It also helped that Jim had that ingratiatingly syrupy smile- one that entranced Don and disgusted Alan.

"Okay, soldier. We are going to take advantage of your obvious _expertise_ in manipulating items with your left thumb and index finger. But first, boot camp." Jim looked pointedly at Alan and Charlie. "Boot camp procedures will be as follows: gripping practice once an hour, five hours a day. Keeps us in line with Olivia, so it should be easy to remember- and heck, it's just good procedure. Can everyone say five, please?" Because Jim stood tapping his foot with seeming impatience, Alan and Charlie felt obligated to respond and recited _five_ together, satisfying the therapist. Jim added, "Of course, they don't have to be the same five hours, and there should be down time between this practice and his speech therapy."

Jim bopped back to Don's right side. "Alllll- righhht. This clay is pliable and easy to manipulate. Have Don grip it and squeeze it…Fun, fun, fun." Jim did a little jig. "Notice there are other containers of clay- as his grip gets stronger, have him use the next clay in the series; each one is less pliable than the one before it, and will challenge Don as his grip becomes stronger." Slipping to a window set in the door of the room, Jim tapped on the glass, his fingertip pointing at a man lifting weights. "It's like adding weights when bench pressing- when your muscles get stronger, you add more resistance if you want to keep increasing muscle strength."

Turning back to Alan and Charlie, Jim raised the pitch of his voice. "Children, our special word today is _resistance_. Can we all say resistance?" Alan and Charlie sighed; now they were _both _becoming irritated with the therapist. But one glance at Don's happy face and they mechanically said _resistance _despite themselves. They each had the distinct and _un_happy feeling that they would be stuck with Jim Makinac for the duration of Don's rehabilitation.

"Good job. Please try to reach a resistance-training goal of ten minutes each time. And don't limit it to the clay- everyone knows good training involves using various techniques. Lucky you, lucky you- once you enlisted, it entitled you to some of these basic supplies. However, I will suggest you take some of my super-duper secret skill-building catalogues and buy some supplemental activities. A bored soldier is an ineffective one."

Jim returned to his voice of authority as he addressed Don. "Soldier, we are going to need more weapons to use in our mission. Do you think you can pick another one out for us?" Don sat staring with incomprehension shaping his face. Jim skipped to his side, lifted his right hand up again and placed it above the item he wanted Don to 'choose'. Standing at attention, Jim exclaimed, "Parachute drop!" It was all he had to do to get the response he desired; Don dropped his hand down to the table, once again waiting for approval.

"Soldier, you deserve a medal. I think I'll make you and your buddy lieutenants." Jim jumped to a file cabinet behind Don, rifled through a few files and came back with two charts and a set of small stickers, each one a bright red star. For once settling his motions, he carefully wrote Don's and Buddy's names on the charts, aware of the rabbit's name from his earlier perusal of his patient's file. When he finished writing, he pressed a sticker on each of the charts, and put them in Don's line of sight on the table.

After giving a grandiose salute to his 'soldiers', Jim picked up and then dumped out the contents of the box that Don's hand had conveniently _chosen._

Don was becoming more and more attentive. He did not know why, but he was aware that the stars meant _something good_. And that the _something_ that was _good_ had to do with _him_. He cautiously glanced at Charlie and Alan. Each of them smiled back at him and mouthed 'you're doing great'. Feeling that maybe he was doing more than he had thought he could before leaving for the doctor, Don rubbed the chalk in his left pocket. Maybe he was doing good enough that Charlie would still want him, maybe as much as the chalk.

Maybe more.

Don tried to concentrate on the ever-moving Jim and his activities. The therapist was rummaging through a pile of wooden blocks, deftly putting them to the side of the table. When he was done, he turned over a wooden tray that had individual holes that matched the shape and size of one block each. Shaking the box to make sure he wasn't missing any of its contents, Jim put it aside and addressed Don. "Soldier, sir, we need to organize our unit in preparation for a _gripping _assault. Can I rely on you?" Jim nodded his head, only having to wait a minute before Don copied his movement.

"Good. Now let's take advantage of your left-handed skills." Jim pointed to the biggest block; it was a solid-wood cylinder six inches in length and four in diameter. "Soldier, put the first member of your unit in his home base." Jim put Buddy on the table and brought Don's hand to the block. "Open your finger and thumb, soldier, and pick up the block." Don did as he was told, lifting the cylinder off the table for a few seconds; when he lost his grip and dropped it, his eyes welled up with tears and he clutched at Buddy, sinking into the back of his chair, afraid to look at any of the people in the room.

"Soldier, we do not give up in the face of persecution," Jim ordered. He gently took Don's left hand in his own and wrapped their fingers around the cylinder, pulling Don back up to the edge of the table. Don refused to watch, shutting his eyes with the fear of another failure. Together, therapist and patient picked up the cylinder, moved it a few inches across the table and positioned it in its slot within the wood tray. Releasing Don's hand, Jim strutted back and forth, gloating. "Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah! We did it soldier. Our first mission is a success!" Don opened his eyes and looked at the block they had moved. When Alan and Charlie chimed in their praises, Don sat straighter and smiled, waiting for further directions from Jim.

"Woo-hoo!" Jim yelped. "In order to graduate from boot camp, we need to pick up our blocks and put them in their little fox holes. We start with the big guns- Don should pick up the biggest blocks first, and then he can work his way down to the smaller ones." Jim picked up a clipboard from his file cabinet and pointed it at Charlie and Alan. "Support personnel are responsible for record-keeping: make sure you write down how long it takes Don to pick up an object, how long he can hold an object, and how far he can carry it. That is what we here in the army call _keeping track of progress_."

Jim hopped to the file cabinet, and then hopped back to Don. He put two more stickers on Don's chart. "You are going to be the most decorated officer in the army," he promised Don. Running his left index finger over the stars, Don's smile continued to grow.

Jim stopped in front of Alan and Charlie and began writing letters in the air, spelling the word _manipulation_ while he said the name of each letter out loud. When he finished, he asked Charlie-who hadn't kept track of the letters- "And what does that spell?" Blushing, Charlie stole a glance at his father, who smiled and mouthed the answer to him.

"Manipulation!" Jim exclaimed. He positioned Don's hand over a large toy. This time, Don readily knew what was expected of him and quickly put his hand on the toy when Jim yelled _parachute drop_. Jim marched back and forth, waving a stiff arm up and down like a toy soldier; he stopped in front of Don and gave him another salute. "The president called and has issued this proclamation- Don and Buddy are hereby assigned as captains of all troops stationed within the Los Angeles area." Don looked at the charts, expecting to be given stickers. Seeing this movement, Jim shook his head while he waved a finger back and forth. "Oh, no. We only award medals after engaging in battle. Would you like to go back out into the field?" Jim waited to nod his own head, wanting to see if Don would respond without the prompt. Staring at the stickers, Don finally nodded; he wanted to get another star.

Putting his attention back on Jim, Don's eyes never strayed from the movements of the therapist as Jim dropped to a crouch, put a hand over his eyes and looked about the room. Jim darted under the table, jumping up on the other side of Don. He quickly pushed the large toy in front of Don and leaned over his patient, his arm draping across Don's shoulder as he whispered in his ear, "This is a top secret mission. Are you ready to proceed?" Don did not hesitate this time, and immediately nodded.

The toy in front of Don was a common child's toy. Various bent metal bars were attached at either end to a wooden base. There were small and large wooden beads through which the bars had been pushed; they were able to be pushed along the twists and turns of the metal.

Jim moved Don's left hand to a large bead at the end of one bar. He whispered, "Now, our mission is to get this soldier back to his home base. Just use your finger and thumb to push it along." After several attempts and encouraging words from Jim, Don was able to close his thumb and finger behind the peg. Clasping his wrist, Jim helped Don push the bead along the metal path until it rested at the opposite end.

Giving another salute, Jim pealed off two more stickers and awarded them to Don and Buddy. "Soldier, I am very proud to have you in my unit. With these medals, you now qualify to be majors." He gently patted Don and Buddy on their backs while Alan and Charlie complimented their success.

Flopping to the floor in-between Alan and Charlie, Jim crossed his legs and looked up at the two puzzled men, his face bouncing to one and then to the other. "Manipulating our basic supplies is important. Not only do we have to be able to pick up an item, we have to move it to where we want it to go. This involves finger, hand and wrist movement." He threw his head back toward the table. "This is one secret weapon we have in the fight to improve our troop movement." Talking to the men behind his hand, he whispered, "I included the names of some other devices you can use in the secret-for-your-eyes-only file that you'll get at the end of our session with Olivia; but don't leak a word of it to the enemy- the Geneva Convention outlawed every single one of our devices." He nodded his head as if in all seriousness.

Charlie sighed inside. He had been adverse to the therapist's behavior at first, but had politely waited to see if his methods would be successful with getting Don to participate in the therapy. To Charlie's chagrin, the methods had been extremely successful. He recognized that his brother was not only participating in the activities as they were offered; when they were finished, it was obvious Don wanted to do more. Charlie also recognized the changes in behavior Don was exhibiting from the first time Jim had shown him how to do the _parachute drop_. Don had gone from imitating Jim to actually responding on his own: immediately dropping his hand upon hearing the prompt _parachute drop_ without having to be shown what to do, and nodding his head when Jim asked him a question, without Jim having to nod his head first.

The teacher in Charlie also recognized the purpose of the stars. Olivia had pointed out that eating food was immediately gratifying, so he knew that Don would probably practice his tongue exercises if he had something good-tasting to lick because the reward would be instantaneously given through the sense of taste. However, the gripping and manipulating therapy would not necessarily supply immediate gratification or satisfaction, especially if Don continued to be unsuccessful in his attempts; so, Charlie reasoned, Don needed the token reward of the stars. Having knowledge of reward systems that were utilized to teach, Charlie was aware of two things: one, that the tokens would build up to a tangible reward- something like letting Don choose a game or even giving him a treat; and two, that the reward system would eventually be phased out as Don became more aware of himself and would no longer need childish reinforcers to perform the tasks. Charlie was confident that at some point his brother would again have the cognitive ability to understand the need for the therapy and would perform based on reasoning- not because he and his stuffed toy received a star.

Alan did not have the advantage of the teaching background that Charlie did. Even though he tried to encourage Don in everything he was doing, Alan could not help but be irritated by Jim's overbearing smile and seemingly uncontrolled movements. When Jim started talking to them about secret files and the Geneva Convention, Alan had had more than he could tolerate; he was about to say something untowardly to the young therapist when a young woman interrupted his desired tirade and informed Alan that he had a telephone call. Happily excusing himself, he left to answer the phone.

"Well, let's do a few more troop maneuvers while we wait for our support personnel to return," Jim said, popping up off the floor, swaying across the room, and landing on his knees at eye level next to Don. "Would you like to drop out of a few more planes and earn more medals?" he asked. Don nodded. He rubbed at the chalk in his pants pocket, looked at Charlie and was satisfied when he received a smile, and then put his right hand over the table, his eyes flashing between his brother and the stars on his chart.

"Parachute drop!"

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"Alan Eppes here."

"Alan. It's Harvey Johnson, your world-renowned attorney."

"Harvey, I am not really in the mood for joking right now. Is there something wrong?" Alan was concerned. Why would the attorney track him down here? It must be something important and he had been afraid to ask, but had anyway. His heart beating fast in his chest, Alan listened, his hand on his hip and his left eye starting to twitch again.

"I'm sorry, Alan. The news is actually good. I got a call today from the probate court- they've scheduled Don's hearing for next week."

Alan's eye stopped twitching as he let out a slow breath of air, his heart starting to beat regularly in his chest. "How is that possible? I thought you said it would take weeks for me to get a hearing for permanent conservatorship of Don?"

"Trust me, Alan. I was as surprised as you. But a judge can waive the required timelines and apparently one has. And be grateful that my secretary is as good as she is; we have to notify all interested parties that you are applying for permanent conservatorship. It has taken some scrambling on her part to type up the required letters and get them posted; they all had to go out certified so we have proof the recipients received them on time. By the way, Charlie will be getting one of these letters in the mail- tell him to just sign for it and put it aside. It's nothing to worry about."

"Is there anything I need to do to be prepared?"

"Just one thing: since Don is now at home, he needs to attend the hearing. The judge will probably want to ask him a few questions."

"I don't know if that's possible, Harvey. Don has only been home a few days and I don't think he's emotionally prepared to be in a crowded courtroom." Alan was also thinking about his thirty-five year old son appearing in public with his thumb in his mouth and a stuffed toy clutched in his arms; he had been trying to keep anyone but the necessary people from seeing Don that way, knowing when his son got better it would be hard for him to accept that he had appeared in front of others that way.

"I'm sorry, Alan. If we make up an excuse to keep him from attending, the judge may change the hearing to another date until Don's appearance is guaranteed. You have to understand that conservatorship takes away a lot of Don's basic civil rights- most judges don't want to make that move unless absolutely necessary and like to have the opinion of the proposed conservatee when making a ruling. In Don's case, his appearance can only help you in obtaining permanent papers of conservatorship- I'm sorry, but one look at him and I think any judge would see his need for permanent care."

"All right. I'll have Charlie prepare him for it. I just want to get this done and over with."

"After Monday, it will be. I'll call you later this week and give you the specifics. I wanted to prepare you for the letter Charlie will be receiving, and thought you'd like the good news."

"If I seem ungrateful, Harvey, I apologize. Of course I wanted to know. I thank you, thank your secretary for me, and thank that judge."

"Oh, I plan to." The men said their goodbyes.

As Johnson laid the phone back on its hook, he began to ponder the situation. He had been just as surprised as his client that they had received such an early hearing date. Not that he was complaining, he thought, but he had a funny feeling that something was not quite right.

Johnson tried to shrug off the uneasy feeling, but failed; deciding to take Alan's advice, he picked up the phone and dialed the number of the probate judge he had been told had changed the hearing date. Because the judge who had changed the hearing date might not be the one hearing their case, Johnson did not believe it would be improper to call him with the excuse of thanking him; besides, they had attended law school together, and Johnson knew the judge would not mind his call. While they talked, he would try to get some information.

When he was put through by the judge's secretary, Johnson put his most ingratiating voice into the phone:

"Kenneth! Long time no see."


	28. How We Would Help You 3

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs, or any character therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

Author's note: Yes, I know people like Jim. And Alan's attitude toward him is mine own. But I have to give them credit- with little children, that syrupy stuff works.

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By the time Alan returned to the therapy room, Don had earned another five stars. Watching from the doorway, Alan observed the overexcited gestures of Jim and listened to his words of over-exuberant praise. He is too much for me to take, Alan thought, but he does make Donny happy. Finally joining the group in the room, Alan boomed a _good job_ at Don, receiving his own reward of a proud smile that was directed toward him- and nobody else. Already ecstatic about the early hearing date, Alan was more receptive to Jim; he decided right there and then that if the therapist could continue to get his son to smile at him the way he just had, then anything Jim did was perfectly fine with him.

Don was working with a shallow pan filled with rice. Charlie slid over to his father and explained the activity to him. "Jim hid three different items under the rice. Don has to move his fingers through the rice and find the hidden objects. He'll get another star when he finds all three and lifts them out of the rice."

Alan tossed out a couple more words of encouragement to Don. He told Charlie, "It's amazing how simple these activities are. I hate to admit it, but I thought I'd just be a wet noodle when it came to helping Don with all this therapy." He raised his hand to scratch the back of his head. "But you know, this guy makes it seem like we're playing games- and you know how great I am at playing games."

After clapping his father lightly on the back in agreement, Charlie went to sit next to Don at the table, goading him to find the second item under the rice. Jim was behind Don, dancing back and forth across the room. He seemed to notice Alan's return for the first time, and stopped sudddenly. Whispering a few words to Charlie, Jim saluted Don and skipped to Alan, grasping the elder Eppes' hand firmly in his own. "I am glad to see your safe return."

Joining in, Alan replied, "One of our generals called to give new orders. Our troops will be moving out earlier than anticipated."

"Good to hear." Jim tugged at Alan's arm, pulling him from the therapy room. "We need to talk." Jim's frenzied movement was unexpectedly gone. Alan followed the therapist back to his office and sat down, surprised to see the man's arms, legs and head at a standstill for the first time since meeting him.

Jim sat down in his chair and pulled out a clipboard containing several pages of typewritten paper. "You know, the show is for the kiddies, not the adults."

Alan raised an inquisitive eyebrow at him."We don't like to refer to Don as a child."

"What I mean is, all the energy and talk about soldiers- that's for Don's benefit, to get him motivated to do the therapy. And like it or not, right now he_ is _a child. But notice I use complete, complex sentences with higher-level vocabulary when discussing things with him. And the military ranks I gave him were real, not made up. You have to walk a fine line between challenging him to progressively think and behave like an adult, and meeting his child-like needs at the moment. There will be times when you'll feel like you're walking a tightrope."

"Considering you act so much like a circus performer, I think the tightrope analogy is an appropriate one."

"Oh, don't think I'm blind to the effect my routine has on adults when they first meet me. When Don gets his cognitive facilities back, I'm sure he will have the same desire to punch me as you did."

"Well, I wouldn't say I wanted to punch you… not exactly."

Both men laughed, a congenial relationship forming between them.

Alan relaxed into his seat. "Now that I have an adult to talk to, can I ask you what his prognosis is?"

"Sure. I think Don has a good chance of regaining the full use of his hands. I've seen his x-rays and have felt the structure of his hands." Alan looked surprised. Jim smiled, joking again. "What? You didn't notice how I kept holding his hand? You know we're not dating, so I had to have another reason for doing it." Switching back to a sterner tone, he said, "So, there is no serious damage to the muscles or joints- the neurologist pinpoints the underlying problem to nerve reception, which may improve over time. We'll have to see what happens after Don takes those diuretics. But don't expect that to be a miracle cure; even though the damage is not serious, he'll still need months of therapy to build up the muscle strength in order to grip. Most likely, the problem would not have gotten so bad if he had started therapy immediately after his injury had occurred."

While Alan thought his words over, Jim set the clipboard at an angle in front of him and flipped through the attached pages. "I think we've covered the fine motor skills quite thoroughly. I'm positive Professor Eppes understands the purpose of the stars. When Don earns ten of them, give him a small reward. When he earns fifty, give him a big reward. You should set it up so that he can earn two stars an hour, which is ten a day and then fifty a week."

"What about weekends?"

"Give your son a break. Do something fun with him that involves gripping, but not set times. You can make the activity his big reward; I read he used to play baseball, so maybe you can go to the park and play. I can provide the proper equipment- we definitely don't want him to use a hard bat or ball. Gotta watch that head."

Seeing a look of uncertainty masking Alan's face, he assured, "I know it sounds like Don is back in school, but that's an advantage. Somewhere in his mind will be the memory of that routine- from high school, college, and even his job. It'll help him be more receptive to a schedule if it's one that he is familiar with."

Finally understanding the purpose of the five-day schedule, Alan laughed. "You don't know the F.B.I. very well if you think he ever worked a five-day week."

"Okay, I'll give you that. But he did attend a regular public school, didn't he?"

"And I'll give you _that_. A five day schedule is just fine with me. It'll give me and his brother a break."

It was Jim's turn to give Alan an uncertain look. "You and Professor Eppes will have no breaks. Even if you don't do the scheduled occupational therapy, you'll still have to bathe, feed, and care for Don. He'll still need to keep to a specific sleeping schedule. And you'll still need to do his speech therapy. I'm sorry Alan- but the word _break_ is going to mean five minutes to rest your eyes… if you're lucky. Are you positive that home care is the route you want to go? This institute has an excellent staff"-

"No!" Alan's loud outburst made Jim jump a little in his seat. "We _can _and _will _take care of Don ourselves."

The determined and stubborn look on Alan's face was enough to make Jim drop the subject like it was a boiling hot pan.

"All right. As part of Don's life skills, social skills, and cognitive functioning therapy, the staff filled out the FIM and FAM. Those are short names for the Functional Independence Measure and Functional Assessment Measure. I am going to quickly go over the forms with you; if you disagree with any of their opinions, please let me know. Staff based their answers on their observations of Don while he was here at the institute. We usually have the patient and family answer these questions, but Don was and is unresponsive, and he was incapable of giving us permission to talk to you while he was staying here, so we had to resort to staff opinion."

"Do you want me to answer _yes_ or _no_?"

"No. If you agree, don't say anything, But stop me when I say something you disagree with. Then you can tell me why the staff was wrong in their assessment. Okay?"

Alan nodded. Jim began to read from the FIM and FAM, listing the things Don could not do on his own: feed self, groom self, bathe self, dress upper body, dress lower body.

"He can pull up his boxers," Jim noted, Alan still nodding in agreement. "And he can use the bathroom by himself. His bladder control is good, but that may change once he starts taking the diuretic. We are also unsure about his bowel control because he has been on a liquid diet and has not had regular or full bowel movements."

"I really never paid attention. I know he urinates on his own, but it didn't cross my mind to, uh, check that other aspect."

"That's okay, because we did. You'll discuss that later with Dr. Wang."

Jim stated that Don could transfer to a bed, chair, toilet, and car on his own- if someone opened the door- and he had no apparent problems walking. However, he could not transfer to a tub on his own.

Jim continued. "In cognitive functioning, Don needs help with problem-solving, his memory, orientation, safety, and judgment."

"I don't know what you mean by those last three."

"Orientation refers to how he adjusts to a new environment. Does he continue to cry and hide when he is confronted with new people, situations, and environment?"

"He didn't with you, but I don't think you gave him the time to be scared. But, yes, he does seem to cry every time we do something or go somewhere new. Charlie has been trying to keep him from hiding, but I think the desire is still there."

"Okay, we need to work on those things. Now, safety refers to his ability to recognize and react to real danger; judgment is his ability to assess problems and make a decision."

Alan thought about how he and Charlie had to protect Don during the thunderstorm. "No, I don't think he understands real danger. And though he says _no _sometimes, if you press, he always gives in and does what he's told to do, leaving the decision-making to someone else; you just have to make sure that you don't relent. Before the accident, Don would never have given in; he has always been extremely independent." Alan sighed loudly. "He has a lot to work on, doesn't he?"

Trying to lighten the mood, Jim teased, "Is my support personnel deciding to go AWOL?"

Smiling, Alan sat up straight and responded, "No, sir. Please proceed, sir."

"It appears that Don can read words written at college level, but he does not comprehend what is read; his oral reading is not fluid, due to his speech fluency disorder. Since Olivia already went over that with you, we'll skip it. He needs help with understanding and following directions, both oral and written. And he needs to learn to hold a pen again, so he can write. Are you in agreement so far?"

"Yes, I am. Is there much more?"

"No, just his psychosocial and independence assessments. Don has a poor psychosocial assessment. Obviously, Don needs social interaction therapy. Not only does he need to stop sucking his thumb and eventually give up carrying Buddy everywhere he goes, but he needs to learn to stop shaking, crying and hiding in new situations and environments. He also needs to learn to interact with others orally, at an adult level of communication. As for independence, the staff stated that he needs maximal assistance when performing tasks- that is, he can only perform 25 to 49 per cent of any given task independently."

"Any questions about percentages you should ask Charlie. But I'd say fine, that's sounds right."

"We won't discuss Don's specific psychological problems. Those will be addressed during his psychotherapy. Our therapy will'-

"Don doesn't have a psychologist." Alan interrupted. "Dr. Wang said he wanted to wait until after Don was given the diuretic therapy."

Jim opened his mouth to say something, but then shut it again as he thought better of it. "Uh, I guess he has a reason for that…So, let's look at what we can do about Don's other issues."

Alan wasn't fooled. He knew that Jim had wanted to say something else, and he was sure that it was something negative about Don not being assigned a psychologist. Alan had wondered about the decision himself; though it was obvious Don needed a lot of physical therapy, many of his problems appeared to stem from his psychological and emotional attachment to Dr. Thompson. Determined to ask Dr. Wang about the decision when he saw him later that day, Alan refocused on the suggestions Jim was making.

"Life skills are those that address everyday self-care- like grooming and feeding oneself. We can't expect to teach Don all of these skills at the same time. Because hand grip and manipulation is a major part of these activities, we are indirectly working on each one through his regular occupational therapy. Directly, I think we should work on Don's ability to feed himself, because it coincides with his swallowing therapy, and personal grooming. I have an assistive device that will allow Don to take care of these needs. You'll learn how to use them when we meet with Olivia. Any questions so far?"

Alan shook his head. Jim began to twirl his pen, leaning back in his chair while staring at the ceiling. "Social skills involve all of Don's interactions in his environment. We not only want to stop his crying and hiding in new situations; we need to know Don can recognize signs of danger- like, not walking into the street when a car is coming. And he needs to know who to trust, and who not to." Alan thought about Dr. Thompson. He prayed he could teach his son that she could not be trusted. "We will make a trip into the community once a week. I'll show you how to test Don's knowledge of community social skills. See if he can pay for an item in the store and wait for his change, recognize the different colors on a stoplight, identify people like policemen and construction workers… You can use flash cards and computer games to test these skills, too. Try it once or twice a day, whatever he can tolerate."

Jim sat up in his chair, putting the pen aside. He clasped his hands in front of him and put on his most serious face. "Alan, everything we have Don do may frustrate him. He may start telling you that the activities are too simple. He may complain he already knows this or that. I'm sure Olivia has already explained this, but all of these lower-skilled activities will increase his higher lever cognitive functioning; the therapies go hand in hand. Don't let him give up. And they _will_ help his memory come back. Do you want to know why?"

The therapist leaned across his desk, beckoning Alan forward. When Alan had his ear within an inch of the therapist's mouth, Jim whispered,

"We.

Don't.

Know.

Why."

Both men sat back in their chairs, Jim smirking while Alan frowned in frustration. "Now you know how Don will feel. As his cognitive reasoning returns, he'll want to know _why this_ and _why that_. And when you answer _I don't know_ he will become increasingly frustrated and want to give up. This is where trust in you and your other son becomes important. It is obvious that Don loves you two," Alan grinned, thinking affectionately about his sons, "so that is a plus. But so is keeping track of his progress; it will not only show you how successful the therapy is, it can also be used to convince Don of its effectiveness."

"How long do you think it will take for his memory to come back?"

"Again, we don't know. One day he might not remember anything about his family, the next day he might remember every single member. It can come like a bolt of lightning- he can be sitting watching television or be in the middle of eating, and _boom_, he remembers the name of his first girlfriend and everything about her. There is no telling how long it will take- it may be instantaneous, it may pop up piece by piece- or it may not fully return at all. Every case is different. The only thing I can guarantee is that our therapies help the memory process, but, despite the theories that are circulating out there, we really don't know why."

Standing up, Jim led Alan to the door. They checked in on Charlie and Don, who both seemed to be enjoying themselves as Don looked for the last object in the rice. Leaving the brothers behind, Jim directed Alan toward the hallway next to his office.

"There are two more things I want to talk to you about. The first one concerns Don's friends. It is good to have them visit. This will allow him to practice interacting with others, and may stimulate his memory. The second one is his aqua therapy. I'd like to show you our therapeutic pool."

As they walked down the hall to the pool, Alan explained to Jim, "Don has a strong attachment to the woman who kidnapped him."

"Yes, I read that in Wang's notes."

"Well, Don's friends are the ones who rescued him. But in his eyes, he probably thinks they stole him from her. Do you still think it would be a good idea to have them come over?"

"No, not now at least; when he starts to remember them, maybe one at a time. Doesn't he know anyone outside of work?"

"There's Larry. He's actually Charlie's friend, but he was becoming pretty close to Don, too."

"Invite him over and see how Don reacts, see if he settles down and accepts the guy's presence. But make sure this Larry understands Don's limited abilities and can accept his _eccentric_ behaviors."

"Oh, don't worry. That won't be a problem at all. Larry's an expert when it comes to eccentric behaviors."

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"Gordon, it's Melinda. Are you set for the hearing?"

"Of course, Melinda. I am more than adequately qualified to prepare for a probate hearing."

"Prove it to me, Gordon."

Grumble. "All right. Of course, you know Reeves placed your son in one of the institutes you recommended."

"Yes. I knew she'd never look at the list of institute names I handed her when she arrested me. She had no idea Wang was on my list, did she?"

"From what my investigators tell me, no, she didn't. But we could assume that without paying for their confirming information. I don't think she would have had him commit himself to Wang if she had seen his name on your list. You seem to be a lucky person, Melinda. There are so many institutes available…"

"Not luck, just good at my job. I knew Reeves was in charge of the case and would be one of the arresting officers; thirty years of experience told me Donny's so-called friends weren't about to let someone else do their dirty work. I only had to wait for the right moment to give that list to her"

"There was no way to know she would recommend your son be put in a private institution in the first place."

"Don't ever assume I do a job halfway, Gordon. I had all of Donny's associates investigated a long time ago. I knew Reeves had training in psychology and knowledge of the current conditions of our state hospitals. After prompting her with my suggestion of a private institute, the odds were in favor of her talking Donny's dad into putting him into one."

"But for her to pick one on your list...?"

"That was just common sense. I included all the decent ones within a reasonable distance from his home. I never imagined he'd be placed that night. I actually thought it would take a few days."

"That immediate placement was not in your favor. If Reeves hadn't called the father while your son was signing in, we would have no way of showing she had an opportunity tell the father you recommended Wang."

"But she did call him. Besides, you know I originally set it up as a defense against the kidnapping charges. I thought I'd need it to show my concern for Donny's well-being."

"Thanks to me, you did not need that defense, now did you?"

Sigh. "No, Gordon. I didn't. And without you, I would never have known it would be an advantage in probate court."

"Why, Melinda. Are you complimenting me?"

"No, Gordon. I am just pointing out that I do have a reason for paying you."

Silence. Gordan began again.

"You wanted further proof of my adequate abilities?"

"Why, Gordon. You have more for me?"

"Of course, Melinda. Thus far, I haven't said anything you didn't already know. Let me explain why I am going to continue to ask for my full fee- even though it is only probate court."

"I am waiting with abated breath, Gordon."

"My chief investigator took one of the admitting nurses to a nice dinner. They talked about the night Tommy Larson tried to get a room at Wang's institute. And about other patients who were actually admitted that night- including your son."

Pause.

"Don't play games with me, Gordan. Out with it."

"It seems our Agent Reeves was a very naughty girl…"


	29. How We Worked Together

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs, or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person, real or imagined.

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Charlie had just helped Don find the last item in the pan of rice when Jim and his father returned. Don was sitting with two charts full of ten stars each, smiling proudly at his daddy and trying to pick them up so he could see what a good job he and Buddy had done. Alan reached for the charts, studied them for several minutes and congratulated Don, slipping the charts halfway into Don's front pocket alongside his chalk, so he could show them off to anyone who was interested. Jim went into overdrive, bouncing across the room to where they sat, tooting an imaginary horn in honor of the accomplished tasks.

"Well, done, troops. Mission accomplished." Bobbing his head to an unheard rhythm, Jim sidestepped all the way to his file cabinet and brought out a clear acrylic jar full of suckers. He bound over to Don and presented it to him. "You have won the second-highest award possible. For earning ten stars, you get to pick one- any one. It's all for you and for nobody else." Jim opened the jar, urging Don to take a sucker out. Don did not move, unsure how he could get one of the offered items. Jim took Don's left hand, crooked his index finger and dipped it into the opening of the jar. Each sucker was wrapped with plastic around the candy, unwrapped loops sticking out as holders instead of sticks. Jim led Don's finger around the interior of the jar, and after he got a look of interest when a red one was touched, he helped his patient snag a sucker and pull it out. Don looked at Buddy, but Jim shook his head. "Wet candy can be very detrimental to a furry animal. Let Buddy enjoy watching you with your treat." After unwrapping the sucker, Jim looped it around the first two fingers of Don's right hand and showed him how to put it in his mouth. He was about to tell Don to suck on it, but quickly realized that it was unnecessary; that was one trick Don had mastered.

Charlie watched Don happily sucking on his candy, filled with contradictory emotions that were tearing into him. After accepting Jim and his crazy teaching methods, Charlie had fallen in step and continued the soldier talk when the therapist and his dad had left him alone with Don. He had been just as enthusiastic as his predecessor, cheering Don to find the items and clapping with excitement when one was finally found. To his embarrassment, he discovered he was enjoying himself. This was causing feelings of guilt to rear its ugly head, because he thought it had to be anathema to Don's condition to actually enjoy the therapy that he was required to perform.

Being analytical in his thinking, Charlie broke the reason behind his pleasure into three integrated pieces. The first one directly involved the prospect that the activity would help Don get better; that was always foremost in Charlie's mind. The second one had to do with his experience as a teacher. He had been a professor for some years and had found it very challenging at first; but now, students entering his classes were brighter and more receptive, and he was finding his techniques had improved to the point that teaching had become a rote exercise. An effective one, no doubt, but it still did not offer the twist and turns and surprises that it had originally held when he first started his professorship. Like many in his profession, Charlie had not realized he had been heading for burnout. With Don's therapy and the obstacles he would face, Charlie was cognizant that he would have to develop new pedagogic methods to meet Don's needs. The natural teacher in Charlie could not wait to start the journey of learning that he and his brother would be taking- one as teacher, one as student. And best of all, they would be taking that journey together.

Which led to the third reason that Charlie had for enjoying the therapy; he was allowed to spend all of his time with Don, doing activities that were reminiscent of ones he had not been able to do with his brother as a child. There had been too many factors separating them during their youth: the age difference between them, Charlie's time spent with tutors-Don's time with sports, and the usual sibling rivalries. Charlie had agreed with his father's statement that the therapy seemed like playing games, something he had been limited in doing with Don when they were younger. Though they played chess and Scrabble as adults, those games still didn't compare to fun games that involved pretending and laughing and clapping. In Charlie's eyes, it was as if they were taking a small trip back in time to childhood, with all of its innocence and hope and love and protection and acceptance all wrapped up in the youthful eyes that looked at him from his brother's thirty-five-year-old face.

Sensing the childhood nostalgia that was consuming Charlie with the presence of the suckers, Jim mischievously asked Don, "Sir, do you think your brother would like to enjoy Buddy's treat."

Don nodded his approval, and Jim offered the jar of suckers to Charlie, who bashfully took a sucker, unwrapped it, and stuck it in his mouth, holding it on his fingers like Don.

"Troops, we must move out. We have to reconnoiter with Olivia at her office."

Don and Charlie left the therapy room, followed closely behind by Jim and Alan. The brothers were an odd pair as they walked down the hall together: one tall and older with short hair and more than remnants of a muscular build, carrying a stuffed toy; the other short and younger with wild curly hair and a lanky body. But their brotherly connection was obvious to all, as they walked with a similar gait, smiled the same smile, and had the same happy gleam in their eye from the satisfaction of each other's company- and the ever-wonderful taste of twin cherry suckers sliding around the insides of their mouths.

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Don entered Olivia's office first and made a beeline for her couch, sitting comfortably amongst the cushions and carefully setting Buddy up next to him. His mind was trying to retain at least one segment of his daily routine, and he waited patiently for someone to ask him which cartoon he would like to watch.

"It seems like someone has made up his mind to do something other than therapy this afternoon," Olivia commented, her arms folded across her chest in mock disapproval.

Charlie came to Don's defense. "We haven't done any of the things he's use to doing, and maybe it would be good…?" The question died in his throat when he saw the stern look on Olivia's face. "Maybe not," he relinquished control of the situation to the younger woman.

Clearing his throat, Jim piped in, "Why don't you take Mr. Eppes into the other room and show him how to use the assistive devices. We only have about an hour before Don has to be ready for his MRI, and it'll save time if you have that out of the way before we try feeding him."

Cocking an eyebrow at Jim, Olivia asked, "And what will you three be doing while I'm busy doing _your_ job?"

"Well, uh," Jim had a hard time finding the right words to say, keeping his eyes averted from Olivia. When he was finally able to meet her eyes, he blushed, turning bright red from head to foot. Charlie and Alan shared a look, smiling. Jim was still fidgeting with his hands and bouncing on his feet, but the movement was obviously an expenditure of nervous energy. It was quite clear that Jim liked Olivia. A lot.

Smiling deeply as only a woman who knows she is in control can, Olivia released Jim from his discomfiture and addressed Alan. "Come on, I'll show you how to use the tools while the boys play with the TV. for a little while."

After Alan and Olivia had taken leave, Jim relaxed. He went to a cabinet drawer and pulled out a large piece of thick plastic about a foot in length. He brought it to the couch, sitting down on one side of Don while Charlie sat on his brother's other side. Jim explained, "This is a TV, VCR, and DVD remote control. Notice there are four large circular buttons, each one with a different picture on it- one each of a TV, a DVD player, a VCR, and one showing an old-fashioned channel changer. Don can use this to turn on the machines and channel surf. All he has to do is poke with his finger." Jim showed him how to use the tool. Don played with the remote, happily changing the picture on the television by poking his left index finger on the channel changer over and over again.

"Do we get to take this home with us?" Charlie asked.

"You can if you pay for it. We provide the basics- you know, things insurance companies will pay for. This isn't one of those things." When he saw the hesitation on Charlie's face, Jim added, "It really isn't necessary, you know. I thought it would give Don a little break to play with it before eating."

"How much?"

"A little over three hundred."

Charlie knew he wanted it. Experiencing an indulgent feeling similar to that of a new father, he was positive he wanted anything and everything that would make life easier and happier for Don. Somewhere in the back of his head, he was getting a nagging feeling that he was going to 'spoil' his brother if he bought him everything that caught his attention, but Charlie didn't care. Besides, he figured between what he had left in the bank and the money his dad had from selling his business, they could easily afford a few hundred bucks. And anything else Don wanted. His father would understand, he reasoned, as the older man had pointed out that Charlie could never say no to Don.

"Wrap it up and pack it." Charlie stood up and took the device from Don, handing it to Jim.

"Okay, fine. Let's join your father and Olivia. We should have just enough time for Don to eat before getting him to that MRI."

They entered a room next door to Olivia's office. Inside were six chairs circling a table containing an odd-shaped plate with a lip bent over one edge, a sippy cup with handles, a place mat, and a rotating utensil holder clipped to the corner of the table.

"Come on in, gentlemen. Let's get started." Olivia directed a nervous Don to take the seat in front of the plate, with Charlie to his right. Charlie had his back to the table and faced Don.

Jim pulled what appeared to be a batting glove over Don's hand; a rectangular magnet was set into its palm.

"Don can feed himself with this device. See the utensils in this carousal." Jim pointed to the end of the table. The utensil holder had a fork, a knife, and a spoon attached to its exterior. "Each utensil has a magnet on it. All Don has to do is put his palm on one of the magnets, and the magnet on his glove will attach to it. Then, he can slide the utensil up and out of the top of the carousal." He took Don's hand and showed him how to do it, having him pick up the spoon.

Astonished, Don tried to shake the utensil that now appeared to be stuck to his palm. It would not budge. Jim bent Don's fingers around the spoon. "This is good gripping practice. Don doesn't need strength, but he should try to keep his hand in proper position."

"Now, all he has to do is scoop up some food and eat."

As if on cue, Olivia sat on the other side of Don, facing the same way as Charlie. "The spoon has a shallow bowl so that Don can not pick up too much food at once. The lip of the plate allows him to lift food up against it. Then, all he has to do is put the food in his mouth. When he does, pay close attention. You will want to massage his throat when he begins swallowing, which is almost from the minute he puts the food in his mouth. Okay, Don. You can start eating."

Don stared at the funny plate in front of him. He did not want to put any food into his mouth. He was positive he would start to choke. That morning he did. And it had hurt his throat. Besides, he knew he could not chew the food. Anxiety began to rise up in his chest. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes and he tried to throw the spoon away. But it wouldn't go anywhere. He tried to shove the plate with the back of his hand, but was disappointed that it refused to move, too. Giving up, Don tried to put his thumb in his mouth, but found the spoon was in the way, so he settled on pulling his left ear.

"It's okay, Don. I'm right here. I promise I won't let you choke." Don listened to Charlie's confident tone. "I know you can do it, Don." His indecision disappeared when Charlie pleaded, "For me, Don, please- for me."

As it turned out, Don also had a hard time saying no to his brother.

While Don scooped up some ground carrots, Olivia reminded him to chew, showing him how by opening and closing her mouth. Then, she put her thumb and index finger along his throat. When he put the spoon in his mouth, she encouraged him to chew while she began pulling down on the outside of his throat, only stopping when she felt the motion of swallowing travel past the sensitive tips of her fingers.

Don turned to Charlie, grinning. "I did it."

"You sure did, Don. You sure did." Charlie rubbed Don's shoulder, encouraging him to continue.

"Now, you try it." Olivia told Charlie, helping him set his finger and thumb in the same position. Charlie waited until he saw Don chew several times and then he began to pull. He was surprised that he could actually feel the muscles in the throat fluctuating under his fingertips.

And Don had swallowed without any difficulty.

The brothers looked at each other in amazement; because they had acted as one, Don had been able to eat. In their own individual ways, Charlie and Don felt the bond tighten between them. Charlie understood that their accomplishment as a team was a validation that Don's entire therapy would only be successful if they worked together. Don was thinking more of the immediate future, that if Charlie and he stayed together than he wouldn't have to drink bottles, and maybe he could be a big boy after all.

They were shaken from their reverie when Olivia asked, "Are you thirsty, Don?" After getting an affirmative answer, Olivia slipped Don's left hand into one handle of the sippy cup and told him to lift it to his mouth and suck. While he did so, she explained, "The handles are oversized, so a man's hand can slip through them. And it's spill-proof, just like a child's cup." Don put the cup back on the table and pulled his hand out of the handle. His eyes went wide when the cup fell to its side, but they burrowed when he saw that no liquid had leaked to the table top. After poking the cup several times, Don was certain that he had not made a mess. He took the spoon and scooped up some more food, holding it in from of his face, not wanting to put it in his mouth until he felt Charlie's fingers on his throat.

While Don finished eating with Charlie's assistance, Jim asked Alan if he was hungry. "We have a small cafeteria that serves snacks when the lunch hour is over."

"That's okay. Charlie and I had a large breakfast." Alan could not explain it; he had felt the rumbling of hunger when they had first entered this room, but his own appetite seemed sated once he had seen Don successfully swallow his first bite of food. And the more Don ate, the fuller Alan felt. Must be going crazy, Alan thought, but it must be the good kind of crazy, cause I've haven't felt this happy in a long time.


	30. What Adjustment You Made

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional and should not be associated with any other person, real or imagined.

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"Welcome back, Donny." Dr. Wang greeted his patient with a gentle handshake. "I see you've been working hard." He nodded towards the stars sticking out of Don's pants pocket. Smiling, Don rubbed the charts with his fingertips.

Charlie, Alan, Don and Dr. Wang were waiting with a radiologist in the observation room adjacent to the MRI exam room. Olivia had dropped the Eppes men off, reminding Alan to stop by her office on his way out and pick up Don's eating tools; she would clean and organize them during the interim.

Pointing to the changing room door, Dr. Wang informed Don, "Since you've done such an excellent job, I think you deserve to see someone special." Don looked at the door expectantly, pleased to see Debra coming towards him. He ran up to her and stuck out his cheek, waiting for a kiss. She complied, asking him, "Have you been a good boy, Donny?"

Charlie was immediately at his brother's side. "Don't call him good boy," he demanded. He understood the play-acting for the occupational therapy, and the child-like needs that his brother still required to have met. But Charlie could not get the image of a tongue-lapping dog out of his mind every time he heard that particular phrase. And he was not going to stand by and let anyone use it on his brother.

Debra was taken aback. A flush appeared on her young cheeks. Looking over to Dr. Wang, she stammered, "I'm sssorry. I, well, it just seems to get him to do what I say."

She was given a chastising look from her superior. "I think Professor Eppes is correct. We might have to handle some of Donny's issues as if he was a child, and we might have to explain some more complex things to him for that exact same reason, but we should not directly refer to him on a _regular_ basis as a boy."

Don ignored the exchange between the people around him. His attention was on his favorite nurse. Debra was surprised and pleased that he followed her into the changing room and complied with all of her demands. The demeaning phrases were not necessary to get her patient to do as he was told. One kiss was enough to make him succumb to her every request.

"During the first MRI we gave Donny, he was extremely anxious," Dr. Wang explained to Charlie and Alan. "Though we gave him a sedative, he still kept moving. We'll sedate him again, but it would be a good idea if one of you were to accompany him into the room to keep him calm." Charlie quickly volunteered, rushing into the changing room to put on scrubs like his brother; and to keep an eye on Debra, fearful that the young nurse might say or do something else to Don of which he would not approve.

"I have a questionnaire for you to fill out. You only have to address the areas highlighted in yellow." Wang gave the papers to Alan. "We gave Donny thorough x-rays when he was first admitted. Considering his line of work, we were afraid he might have some bullet fragments imbedded in his body somewhere. Since the MRI emits a magnetic field, any metal in or on his person would be a problem. Luckily, we did not find anything."

As Alan filled out the forms, he asked Dr.Wang about the diuretics. "Do you think medication will be enough to drain that, uh, fluid sitting, uh, on his brain?"

"If the intracranial pressure were at such an elevated level that his brain was being compressed and he was at risk of cells dying, we would have operated and put a shunt in immediately. As it is, the increased pressure is minimal. We believe that the problem is overproduction of the cerebrospinal fluid, because there was no indication on his original MRI that he had any physiological blockage to prevent it from being reabsorbed. This time, the pictures we take will be more extensive. We want to be able to see even a minute drop in pressure between the MRI he is having today and the one he will have after he has been taking his diuretics for a week."

"So, he'll take a pill everyday and that's it?"

"Actually, he'll be taking two types of diuretics. The effects of the first lead to a limitation in the production of the cerebrospinal fluid; the second diuretic is the type more commonly used, and the kind you are probably familiar with. It will cause a flushing action to occur in Donny's body, which will help dispel the first diuretic from his body along with excess fluid. The two work most effectively as a team."

"How often does he take these medicines?"

"He needs to take the first diuretic four times a day, a half-pill each dose; the second one is a whole pill once a day. We'll monitor the effects weekly and determine if he requires an increase in dosage. Over the next six weeks or so, the baseline pressure should normalize and the body should become self-regulatory again. Then, we can take Donny off the medication."

"And if his body doesn't take care of the problem?"

"Then he will have to take medication to regulate it until it does… or for the rest of his life." Wang tried to reassure Alan. "I have confidence that Donny will pull through. Whatever injury was originally incurred, he has managed to come through with minor damage. Most of his problems are from lack of immediate therapy and care, as well as the psychological issues that Dr. Thompson contributed."

Remembering Jim's earlier evasiveness in referring to Don's psychological care, Alan broached the subject of psychotherapy with Dr. Wang. "Why didn't you assign Donny a psychologist?"

Avoiding Alan's question, Dr. Wang continued to talk about the diuretics. "Make sure you read the warnings on the label thoroughly. Donny can not take aspirin. If he has a headache, give him the pain medicine I prescribed. You also need to limit his liquids to six cups a day, including foods like soup or ones that melt into a liquid form, like Popsicles."

His mind back on the medicinal therapy, Alan asked, "Won't drinking six cups of liquids make Donny use the bathroom more often?"

"Yes, but we don't want him to dehydrate, either. And remember, he will be taking in less liquid than he had been while drinking all those bottles everyday, which I assume you will cease feeding him as of today?" Alan gave an affirmative nod. "For the first week or so, the body will be flushing out stored water and Donny may have bladder difficulty. In time, the body will adjust to the diuretic and that won't be a problem. Then, Donny will just need to avoid caffeine, which has the same effect as a diuretic. For now, because we also don't know what kind of bowel control he has, he'll need to wear incontinency briefs- just for a week or two, at most. By then, you'll know if they are necessary in the long term."

Alan frowned. Jim had brought up the subject earlier, but it hadn't crossed his mind that Don would have to wear special briefs. It made sense, of course, as taking the two diuretics and changing his diet would probably be a major adjustment for his body to make. However, Alan wasn't sure Charlie would understand- he might take it as another attempt to force his brother into regressive, as opposed to progressive, behavior. Being an older man, Alan did not necessarily see it the same way. Wryly, he thought of how many men he knew his age that were wearing the briefs, but would not be doing so for a mere two weeks.

When Wang did not continue, Alan brought up the psychologist again. "It sounded as if Jim was surprised you did not assign Donny psychotherapy."

The men looked into the MRI exam room as the technician made preparations for Don. "Mr. Eppes, I must confess that I overdid the physiological causes of Don's problems- for the sake of you gaining conservatorship. Unfortunately, when I filed the reports with your insurance company, they made it clear they would not pay for any psychotherapy until I had the results of Don's physical therapies. Even if I send you to someone that isn't part of this institute, the costs per hour can be quick expensive. I do apologize."

"So what does that matter?" Charlie spoke up from behind them. Alan and Dr. Wang turned to him. While Debra led Don into the exam room, Charlie held back, pointing out what he thought was a foregone conclusion. "My dad and I can pay for the therapy out of pocket." He was puzzled when his father did not readily agree with him.

"Excuse me, but maybe you two need some time to discuss this over." Wang made an unobtrusive exit.

"Is there something I'm missing here?" Charlie stood in front of his father, waiting through the beats of several minutes before he received an unexpected answer.

"Most of the money from the sale of my business is gone, Charlie. The cost of this place, that lawyer Johnson, and the anticipated co-payments on Don's therapy…they'll be soaking up the rest." Charlie rubbed his neck, thinking while Alan hurried up and assured, "I'm not broke- not by a long shot. There's my pension payment, of course, and Don is still getting a partial paycheck. But I don't know what other things might come up, and if we can wait on the therapy…."

Charlie looked to the ceiling, tugging down on his hair. Options were presenting themselves, and he was trying to decide which ones were the best for Don. "If Wang had said we _should _wait, I would accept that, Dad. But he didn't. He sounds like he's trying to save us money." Charlie thought of a solution to their financial concerns, but one he wanted to keep private for the time being. "I want Don to have everything he needs- and everything he wants, if it'll help him improve." He looked pointedly at his father. "Even if it's only to make him happy. I meant it when I said it's hard to see him crying and sad all the time. Whatever it costs, I'm going to pay for it. And that includes the psychotherapy."

"You have that much money left from your consultations, Charlie? I thought you spent most of it on Don's campaign, and, lord, that two-hundred grand reward you paid?"

"Yeah, I did spend the majority of my money on all those things. And next month, I'll only be getting a partial paycheck, too. I could call my contacts and do some more consultations." He let the idea hang in the air, but not for long, as Alan swiped it aside.

"No, Charlie. If anyone has to go back to work, it will be me. Stan would hire me. Don needs you right now. Jim and Olivia have made it clear this is going to be a full-time job, and you don't have time for that outside work."

Charlie did not argue. He knew he wanted to spend every moment he could with Don, and his offer to consult had been a polite proposal, but not one that was serious. He already knew what he was going to do, and did not want his father to know because he was sure that the older man would try to talk him out of it.

"I guess we'll have to brainstorm about this later. In the meantime, let's set up an appointment for Don. I have a feeling something will come up, solve our problems." With that, Charlie joined his brother in the exam room, leaving a worried father behind him.

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Charlie henpecked the workers handling Don, making them mumble threats of injecting more than a mild sedative into the chronically moving and demanding professor. The barium swallow earlier that day had involved x-rays, something he felt were given everyday. But the term MRI set his mothering instincts into overdrive.

"He's not lying in the exact center of the exam table," Charlie pointed out. "Be careful, he might fall off." A nurse pretended to move Don over. "Are his legs supposed to be in that position? Won't he be uncomfortable?" A nurse asked Don if he felt okay; receiving a positive answer, she turned to Charlie, who showed no confidence in the response. When another nurse pulled out a syringe with the sedative, Charlie stood behind her, explaining loudly in her ear, "Don doesn't like needles. Isn't there another way to give him the sedative?" Ignoring him, the nurse plunged the needle into Don's arm. Charlie looked over the nurse's shoulder, his body pressed against her back and weighing her down, making sure she wasn't hurting his brother. When she was done, the nurse stepped back suddenly, Charlie almost falling on his behind as he stumbled backwards. "Oh, excuse me, were you standing there?" she said. Blind to the sarcasm in her voice, Charlie rebounded back to Don's side as the technician took a transducer out and was about to place it around Don's head. "What's that for? Will it hurt him? You know, he's not supposed to have anything heavy on the front of his head?" Sighing, the technician looked to Dr. Wang for help, but only received a shrug. What could he do about a worried brother?

The MRI machine was a bright white tunnel with an exam table extending eight feet from its entrance. Don was lying on his back, his knees bent over a white, triangle-shaped cushion. Dressed in scrubs, he tried to lie still. He remembered the last time he had been in the machine. Before they began, the person in charge of the procedure had told him he couldn't move, and afterwards had informed him that it had taken a lot longer because he did not listen to her. This time, he was determined not to move. He wanted the experience to be over as soon as possible. The first reason was because the loud noises the machine would dispersedly make throughout the exam scared him. He was grateful for Charlie's presence, and was sure he would not be so frightened this time. The second reason was because Debra had taken Buddy, promising to sew the slight tear in his bottom. Don could hardly wait to check the rabbit. Like Charlie and his concerns about him, Don could not help but worry that Debra would not treat the rabbit as well as he would himself.

After placing the doughnut-shaped transducer around Don's head, the technician planted Charlie a few feet from the machine. "Don't go anywhere." Not able to help himself, Charlie quickstepped to Don; their eyes met. "I'll be here the whole time. You have nothing to worry about." The technician grumbled as she took Charlie by the arm and put him back into position. "You can talk to him from here. This is going to take almost an hour. Every time you move, he moves, and we can't get an accurate image, which means this exam will take much longer. Do you want to get out of here at ten o'clock tonight?" Charlie just blinked at her, not understanding the threat. When necessary, he was used to staying up all night. Heck, if they left at three the next morning, it would be nothing to him.

"Charlie." Alan talked to him through an intercom system that went into the room. "Will you please do what she says? Maybe you can be up all night, but Donny and I are getting tired." Seeing a small yawn shaping Don's mouth, Charlie finally stood in place, though he nervously tapped number patterns on his right arm with his left fingers.

An hour later, Don emerged intact from the machine. Charlie ran his hands over his brother's arms and legs, peering closely at his head, as if he thought the machine had been chewing on Don instead of examining him. When they finally left the room, the MRI crew all said a quiet prayer of thanks. They might have waited to say that prayer, however, if they had remembered the brothers would be returning in a week.

"The technicians will go over the images and write a report," Dr. Wang explained to Charlie and Alan in the observation room, Don worriedly looking over Buddy, who Debra returned the moment he had emerged from the exam room. "We'll have the results in a couple days. In the meantime, I want to give Donny his diuretics."

"I'm concerned about him taking the solid pill," Alan said nervously. "Won't he choke on it?"

"Before Donny gets dressed, let's go to my office for a moment. I have a simple solution."

The three men followed Wang down to his office. Taking a small plastic container with a lid from a small refrigerator behind his desk, Wang opened it up to reveal apple sauce. Finding a spoon he usually used to stir his coffee, he scooped up a portion of the sweet sauce and then pushed a pill into it. "Come here, Donny, and take a seat." Don did as he was told, fidgeting as he sat down in front of Wang's desk. Looking to Charlie, Wang rhetorically asked him, "You know how to massage his throat while he's swallowing, yes? Come do so while he swallows this pill." After Charlie got into position, Wang gently pushed the food into Don's mouth. Instinctively, Don tried to chew, but swallowed before the pill was crushed. Charlie pulled down and the pill slipped through Don's throat and into his stomach, sliding with the apple sauce. Taking a small pill from another container, Wang snapped it in half, put it on the tip of his finger, and dropped it into Don's mouth. The tiny piece of pill slid down his throat without assistance from Charlie.

"See now, that wasn't so bad. Put the larger pill in the apple sauce and it will go down that easily every time." Wang smiled at Don, giving him a soft pat on the shoulder. "Now, let's get you dressed and ready to go. You've had a busy day and could probably use some sleep. Before you leave, though, I have a little present for you." Wang picked up a set of three boxes from his desk. "These are some free samples the medical companies gave me. They're the correct dosage that Donny needs for that first diuretic, and should last eight weeks. You give him two complete pills everyday; one-half a pill four times a day. As for the other diuretic, here's a bottle with seven pills- a week's dose. I'm afraid I don't have any more samples I can give you. You'll have to fill the prescription and make the co-payment." He placed the boxes in a bag and handed them over.

Taking the boxes, Alan thanked him profusely. "This is more than generous."

"Well, most of my personal clients tend to be high-end. We do get more middle-class clientele in our outpatient services, but, as I've said before, I don't tend to deal with them."

Dr. Wang escorted the Eppes men back to the changing room, discussing Don's therapy schedule with Alan. "You realize that Don will have set times from now on. When his hour is up, that's it. We only allot the extended time you were given today for initial consultations."

"I guess that's something else I should thank you for," Alan observed.

"Wait until you receive those co-payments, then decide how grateful you really are. Um, one last thing- did you want me to make Don an appointment with a psychologist?"

Alan thought about Charlie, and how determined he was about Don receiving all the therapy that he needed. "Yes, we would like that very much."

"I'll give you a call as soon as I'm able to schedule an appointment."

They were standing in the MRI observation room, the building eerily quiet without the technicians and nurses busily working around them. The outpatient portion of the institute was shutting down, medical personnel were leaving, and only two security guards were left on detail. Wang's crack security team was limited in its duties to the high-maintenance patients in the separate front building, in which a lucky dozen people were admitted and treated.

"Dad!" Charlie called from the changing room. Wang and Alan quickly responded to the note of concern evident in Charlie's voice.

Debra was rubbing a cream over Don, front and back below the waist. With an accusing expression on his face, Charlie demanded, "What's she doing?"

"Professor Eppes, your brother is taking two types of diuretics. He will obviously need protection from accidents. He will have to wear incontinency briefs."

Understanding shifted the look on Charlie's face. But he pondered the cream. "What is she rubbing into him?"

Wang smiled. "Well, it_ is _hot out, and plastic rubbing on skin _does_ tend to cause rashes." Great, Charlie thought, could this be any more humiliating for Don. Wang tried to soothe Charlie's concerns. "Please, understand, most likely it will only be for a couple weeks. Until his body adjusts to the effects of the diuretics and we know how much control he has over his bowels. Right now, he is emotionally indifferent to the experience. But if you act as if it is degrading to him, it will become so." Charlie understood. Everything Don felt about his treatment would center on how Charlie and his dad reacted to it. So, he decided to behave as if it was just a small adjustment in Don's wardrobe.

Alan, though, was frowning, lines digging trenches in his forehead, worried about something he thought would be of much more interest to Don. "Dr. Wang, shouldn't Don…?" He wasn't sure how to phrase the question. "You know, Debra is young and attractive, and she's, well, you know…"

"Ah," Wang said. "It was in his file: underarousal. Not untypical with brain injury."

"I remember reading that word, but I didn't understand what it was. You mean he won't be able to have…?" Alan did not want to put words to his thoughts. He was afraid that doing so would make it more real.

"I can't answer that, not specifically. We can't be sure what's causing it; maybe the brain is not receiving the signals that would normally tell his body to respond. Or it may be psychological, but I am really not in favor of that opinion. Considering our current situation, I would expect Don's body to respond, whether he wants it to or not, so I think the problem must be a physiological one. If it does not improve, there are of course medicinal solutions."

Catching on to the conversation between Alan and Dr. Wang, Charlie formed the same opinion as his father. When Don got better, that would probably be one problem that would be foremost on his mind. And he did not think he would want to be taking any little blue pills as compensation.

"Please," Dr. Wang asked them, "don't worry about this right now. Donny has a long stretch of rehabilitation before him, and I do believe a relationship with a woman will be the furthest thing from his mind."

Watching Debra finish getting Don dressed, Alan and Charlie individually hoped that what Wang said was true, each praying that 'a relationship with a woman' being the 'furthest thing from his mind' would also include the non-sexual but twisted one that Don had with Dr. Thompson.


	31. How He Made A Mistake

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional and should not be associated with any other person, real or imagined.

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"Melinda, it's Gordon. I'm just calling to tell you that I'll be filing our papers to contest on Friday."

"Any problems?"

"No. You are aware, of course, that the judge will be asking your son several questions?"

"Yes?"

"Well, _we _might be knowledgeable of your relationship with him, but in court it might be embarrassing if he refers to you as 'mommy'."

"I've already thought of that."

"You need to take care of the problem before court."

"Obviously. And the Eppes are sure to talk Donny into naming Dr. Wang as his doctor, not me?"

"We can be fairly certain that they will try."

"I don't like things that aren't more than 'fairly certain'. Pause. "I think I need to pay a visit to my son."

"And pray tell, Melinda, how do you plan to do that?"

"You underestimate me, Gordon, and my resources…"

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"I don't understand, Charlie. What could be so important you have to go now?"

Alan was locking the seatbelt around Don in the front seat of his car. Charlie dropped a pile of catalogues on the floor of the back seat along with the bags he had been carrying. He had run and gotten the items from Jim when Don was finished getting dressed. After shutting the door, he squeezed past his father and crouched, looking a frightened Don squarely in the eyes. "I promise I'll be home as soon as I can. Do you understand?" Satisfied with the _yes_ he received from his brother, Charlie poked the button that locked the door and then climbed to his feet to face Alan. "I don't have time to explain. But it's important. You'll have to trust me." Charlie looked at the other's appearance. "Do you think you'll be alright without me?" He was taking stock of his father: drooping eyes, sagging shoulders, and slow movements.

"It's a short ride home and I'm a grown man. I think I can handle it." Guilty about leaving his tired family, Charlie hesitated, tossing the keys to the car from one hand to the other. Alan snatched them and waved his youngest on. "Really, Charlie. We'll be okay. You know, I do have some experience taking care of my son."

"I never said you couldn't take care of Don," Charlie defended himself. "You look like you're about to fall asleep and I didn't know if you could"- Alan frowned, so Charlie corrected himself, "_would_ want to handle him all on your own."

"I appreciate your concern, but if you have business to take care of, this is a good time to do it. I think Don is too worn out to do anything else, and is probably full enough from his late lunch that he won't want to eat. So shoo, go," Alan flapped his hands at Charlie, who decided that his father was right- it was a good time to go. By the next day, there might not be any time available for him to go to the bank. At least, not for several days. And Charlie did not want to wait that long. So he told his father good-bye, waved once to Don and sprinted across the parking lot, checking his watch; the bank was right up the street and he should just be able to make it before it closed. Don's eyes had already begun to slip shut when Alan closed the car door with a clang. Bolting up, Don saw Charlie's form disappearing around the corner of the institute. He began fingering his left ear, his anxiety increasing with the loss of Charlie's steadying presence. Once more, he dropped his hand and rubbed the chalk in his pocket and fingered his chart of stars. The actions were comforting enough to enable him to close his eyes and fall into a shallow sleep.

Alan was about to slide into the driver's seat when his cell phone rang. Leaning against the car, he opened up the phone anddrowsily barked, "What is it?"

"I'm sorry Mr. Eppes. You forgot Don's eating tools. Could you meet me at the back door to the institute- it will only take a minute?"

"I'm sorry, Olivia. I didn't mean to yell at you. It has been a very trying day, and quite frankly, I'm exhausted."

"Don't worry about it. The first consultations are _always _exhausting. Personally, if I were in your position, I would have started screaming about two hours ago."

"Thanks for understanding." Alan looked at the back exit of the institute. It was located across the parking lot and situated parallel to his car. If he looked over his shoulder while he walked, he would be able to see through his window across the front seat to Don, who now appeared to be thoroughly asleep. Alan checked the parking lot for large blue cars, wanting to be sure Thompson wasn't in the area. He noted the lot was almost empty. The few cars that were left were parked one or two spaces down from his own. He checked those and the cars he could see sitting on the curb along the street; thinking Thompson might have changed her transportation, he squinted to see if they had any occupants, but he did not see anyone inside. "Okay, I'll meet you at the exit." After shutting his door and pulling on the handle to make sure it was locked, Alan strode away from his sleeping son, glancing back once or twice to make sure he was okay.

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"I'm sorry, Mr. Eppes. I guess I could have brought this to you." Olivia was holding the exit door open, leaning against the door jamb.

"That's okay. I shouldn't have forgotten it."

Olivia handed Alan the package, but he dropped it during transition. The contents of the bag spilled inside the open door. Sighing, Alan stepped forward and bent over to pick up Don's feeding tools, Olivia letting the glass door shut behind him. He began to think he shouldn't have insisted to Charlie that he would be able to get Don home, the weariness of the day suddenly settling into him.

"I'm sorry," Alan said, tossing another piece of equipment into the bag Olivia had snagged and was now holding open.

"You don't have to keep apologizing."

"Yes, I do. I can't use Donny's condition as an excuse for yelling at people."

"Maybe not. But you don't have to say an apology for dropping a bag because you're too tired to hold it."

Alan took the proffered bag from Olivia. "Have I told you how glad I am that you're working with Donny?"

"No. That's another thing you don't have to say- I believe it's obvious."

When he stepped out the door, Alan briefly glanced at his car. Don's vague form was not moving, and Alan assumed he was still sleeping. As he thanked the speech therapist, his phone rang. "Excuse me, Olivia," he said, clumsily clicking his phone open.

"Bye," she whispered, shutting the door.

"Alan, Harvey here."

"I hope you're calling with some more good news, Harvey. I don't think I have the energy to hear anything negative right now."

Fatigue beginning to overcome him, Alan almost dropped his phone; to retain his grip, he shifted the package he was holding to his right hand, leaning his shoulder against the building for balance. Reoriented, he was about to start walking back to his car when Harvey blurted, "It's about that woman who kidnapped your son, Alan. I think she was responsible for our early hearing date."

Alan sagged against the wall, his right shoulder bearing his weight.

"How could you possibly know that?"

"I don't know for sure. But I made a phone call to the judge who changed our date and he was very evasive when I brought up Thompson. Call it a feeling or intuition, but I think that woman is up to something."

Accidentally dropping his package to the ground, Alan rubbed his eyes with his free hand, lightning clashing behind his eyelids from the building storm of a headache.

"Why," he moaned. "Why would she want us to have an early hearing date? It doesn't make sense."

"It doesn't seem to. That's what has me concerned. If you are granted permanent conservatorship of Don's person, then, most likely, she'll never be able to take him anywhere without your consent. That seems adverse to her previous motives of wanting possession of your son. However, there _is_ a legal reason for wanting the hearing. She couldn't contest the temporary papers you were given- she's only allowed to do that with the permanent ones."

"Could we change the hearing to a later date?" Alan opened his eyes, but the glare of the setting sun reflecting off the institute's windows created more sparks, so he shut them again.

"No point in doing that. We might as well go ahead with our petition, because the papers you currently hold will dissolve in three weeks. If we don't try now, you might end up with a hearing date long after the temporary ones expire and we will essentially be starting from scratch."

"No, no. I don't want to start all over. But can you give me some time to think it about it. If we go Monday, then it's like we're playing her game. Don has been listening to Charlie. If he continues to do what he says, I'm not sure it is necessary for us to pursue permanent conservatorship."

"I'll leave that decision up to you, Alan. Let me know by Thursday at the latest. I want to be prepared in either case. However, my professional opinion is that we should take advantage of the date and pursue it."

"I appreciate that, Harvey. Let me and Charlie discuss it, and I'll get back to you- _tomorrow_. Uh, Harvey, is there any chance they would...?" Alan paused, the words stuck in his stomach, churning acid. "Is there any chance they would give Donny to _her_?"

"Don't talk crazy, Alan. The law has a clear and stable list that they follow when determining who should be conservator of a person and his or her estate. And if Dr. Thompson were even on it, she would be the last person listed."

"Are you telling me that the court _has_ to make the parent the conservator?" Alan's stomach was beginning to experience some relief.

"Not exactly. The first person on the list is spouse. Don isn't married, so that one's out. Then we have adult child, and no one qualifies for that title, either. Third is parent, and that means you. So, in your case, yes, unless there is any serious reason to the contrary, the judge is obligated to name you conservator."

"That"s good news, Harvey. But I still don't understand why she would contest our petition if she can't be named conservator herself."

Harvey was silent a full three minutes before he finally answered. "Her goal might simply be to get him away from your protective care. This is hard to ask, Alan, but in order for me to do my job to the best of my ability, I'll have to."

"Go ahead, Harvey. Ask anything." The stomach acid had resolved itself, but relief from his headache was slow going.

"Is it possible for her to prove some kind of abuse? I read Dr. Wang's reports, and there were obvious signs that Don had"-

Alan pulled away from the building, anger clouding his vision. "Not any she could prove from me or Charlie, if that's what you're implying."

"I'm sorry, Alan. Please understand- I had to ask so I'd be prepared for the eventuality of her using it as a reason to contest."

"I guess that's what I pay you for." Alan found himself apologizing once again. "Since she has no basis for abuse charges, does that mean I'll get permanent conservatorship?" He had to be sure before they made the decision as to whether or not they should keep the hearing date.

"Again, I'd have to say _yes_. I don't see any problems, but if I find out anything new, I'll give you a call. Look, don't worry. Like you said, that's what you pay me for."

"Thanks, Harvey." With his lawyer's assurances, Alan's headache was fading at last, pain no longer flashing across his eyes. He looked for the package he'd dropped on the ground and bent over tiredly to pick it up. When he straightened, he noticed that the sun was beginning the final leg of its descent, the night racing shadows across the parking lot and into the interior of his car. As he thought about his phone conversation with his lawyer, Alan began to approach his car. He was a hundred feet away from it when he saw what he first thought was a last burst of light from the sun on the other side of his car, but then the interior of his car was bathed in what he now realized was an artificial light, and he could see that there had only been shadows within. The solid shape of his son's body was nowhere to be seen.

Alan's heart began to beat rapidly.

He raced to his car and peered disbelievingly into the driver's side window.

And then across the front seat and through the glass of the passenger window.

To a car that sat hidden on the other side of his own.

At a man who was dropping into the driver's seat, pulling his door shut and throwing his car into gear.

But who took the time to look at Alan and grin.

A big, mocking grin.

And then the car began to pull away.

Alan sped around his car, reaching for the stranger.

Because the last thing he'd seen after the door shut was the silhouette of his son.

Who sat beside the stranger, calmly sucking his thumb.


	32. How He Almost Got Away

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional and should not be associated with any other person, real or imagined.

Author's note: I asked my teenage niece (who is a longtime user of this site) and she believes this chapter clearly falls within the category of teen. It's suggestive, but definitely _not explicit_. I guess made-for-tv movie teen. The subject matter is pretty serious, though- but this story has been that way for quite a few chapters. My niece suggested that if I'm nervous (always am) that I put up a disclaimer. So, here it is. If the subject makes you uncomfortable, I suggest reading the last section of the chapter, past the last dotted line. The incident does have its purpose.

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Perceival (call me Percy) Jackson sat up in his car, peering over the edge to see if the old man had gone. He licked his lips when he saw the guy heading to the back door of the institute- alone. The _kid_ must still be in the car, he thought, starting up his engine and heading towards the entrance to the parking lot, his license plate already masked by a piece of black cardboard that he had taped over it more than an hour before; his cheap handiwork had been hidden from prying eyes because he had been parked bumper-to-bumper with the car behind his own. When he saw the old man step into the institute, he pulled alongside his car, Percy's little Geo hidden by the much-larger model in which the _kid _sat.

At forty-five, Percy was an attractive older man. He wore business suits tailored to fit his slim and muscular body. His neat brown hair was trimmed like a soldier's, the close-crop look and clothing giving him the overall appearance of a business man. Most people would assume he held a respectable job and position in society, and that assumption was true. The local branch of a well-known national brand had just hired him as a consultant. But if one was observant and looked beyond the attire and successful career, Percy's favorite vocation was easily detected in the wolf-like hunger that possessed his eyes.

Percy was a sexual predator.

And his favorite prey was found in the back parking lots of outpatient mental care facilities- just like the one in which he currently sat. He had been casing the place for the last hour, hoping that at least one _kid _would appear and offer him the opportunity to snatch him. Percy found it to be the perfect setup. Though he had always preferred male children, Percy did not like the risk that came along with the sexual kinks he enjoyed. A friend had hooked him up with his current prey. He had been told that, unlike minors, most adults with mental deficiencies had the right to consent to a sexual relationship. And they often behaved like children, so he could pretend he had a child in his possession, and could legally enjoy doing anything to them he wanted to … None of his previous prey had even understood what had happened to them. When he sent them off with a prize, they were actually happy about the time they had spent with him.

Even forgetting the pain he inflicted.

Well, a couple had remembered. But they were incapable of vocalizing it to the authorities. Still, two sets of angry parents had been enough to send him fleeing across country to California.

And so far, it had been easy hunting.

Too many caretakers had full-time jobs and could not spend _every_ moment watching their adult children. And by the time they realized what had happened, it was too late. Hell, he mused, he'd even used the same hunting grounds more than once, remembering how he had picked up an outpatient from this same institute six months prior. But though he liked the challenge a higher-end institute like this one presented, Percy considered himself smart; he knew not to mess with anyone coming from the front of the institute, where all the well-to-do clients with high-priced attorneys and _connections_ were entertained. Where the security was so strict the hunting became more than a challenge; it was impossible. No, Percy kept to the back parking lot, watching for the few stragglers that would often come out after hours, when nobody was around and the security detail was at a minimum. And the outpatients were sometimes from upper middle-class families, well enough off to afford the extra payments the place required, but not so wealthy they didn't have to work. With their acclimatization to the safe suburban life, they never suspected a thing.

Percy was certain it would be the same this time, as luck seemed to be on his side. He had been about to call it a night when he noticed the three men leave the exit door. Percy hadn't thought much of the trio, as none of them appeared to meet the requirements of his particular prey. But then curly-head had taken the hand of the _kid_ and was obviously walking him to their car. And Percy had seen the stuffed rabbit, and the thumb sucking. Just like a little _kid_, he had noted, shutting his engine back off to see if there would be a break in the protective wall that was currently surrounding the _kid_. To his delight, a break came when curly-head took off, leaving the prey with one old man.

And then Percy had started his car again, pouncing on the opportunity to pull next to the old man's car when it presented itself.

Percy looked across the lot at the old man, watching as he came out of the building and said something to a woman; then the guy pulled out his cell phone, leaning his left shoulder against the wall of the building as if he would be a while. It was the perfect opening for Percy.

Leaving his car door open, Percy knocked on the window of the other car. It only took a moment for the _kid_ to wake up and look out at him, his eyes squinting, obviously trying to decide if he recognized the person who was peering through the door. Percy put a small upward tilt to the ends of his lips and pointed to the lock.

"Open the door. It's locked," he said, as if it was the most natural thing for the _kid_ to do. Two eyes stared back at him, uncomprehending. "Poke the button. See, that one right there. Come on- be a good boy." Percy noted the last phrase got a reaction from the _kid._ After making sure the old man was still busy on the phone, he prodded his prey with the words, "A good boy would press that button."

Don looked out the window again. He was not sure if he knew the man or not- he had met too many new people that day. But then the man said to push the same button that Charlie had, and that doing so would make him a good boy; the image of his brother and the familiar words made a connection in Don's mind that allowed him to mistakenly believe that the man was not a stranger. Maybe he was another doctor. Remembering what Jim had taught him earlier, he used his left index finger, imitating Charlie by poking the button with its tip. He smiled when he saw that the button went in, and he heard the same click that had sounded when Charlie did it. However, Don was not ready to have the door yanked open, and he started to cry when the man outside the window was suddenly kneeling in front of him. He was beginning to think he did not know this man and remembered that Mommy had said he should not talk to strangers.

Percy knelt in front of the _kid,_ keeping his head low enough so it would not be seen through the driver's side window. Seeing the night creeping across the parking lot towards their cars, he tried to work as quickly as he could, knowing the interior lights of the cars would be dead giveaways to his presence once they were encompassed within the darkness. Percy unbuckled the crying _kid_, despite the tears streaming down his face. When he was finished, he realized it might be difficult to drag his prey from the car. He had not realized how big the _kid_ was. Deciding he needed to coax the _kid_, Percy began to speak softly.

"Now, this is a nice car. It sure is. But I think my car is better. Would you like to take a ride and see?" Seeing more tears start to pour, Percy pulled out a handkerchief and gently wiped away the dampness, his thumb sliding over the soft skin around the _kid's _eyes. He mentally took in the overall appearance of his intended victim: thick black hair, soft brown eyes, and strong, healthy body. Confirming that the father was still occupied, Percy was determined to get his prey; though the _kid_ was older than he preferred, he was certain he had never taken anyone so beautiful. He looked the _kid _over, trying to find a way to convince him to get out of the car, when he noticed the stars sticking out of his pants pocket.

"Hey, pumpkin, did you get those stickers for being a good boy?" Bingo! he thought, noting how the _kid_ straightened in his seat and rubbed his fingertips over them. "Would you like to earn some more stars?"

Don was scared. He couldn't see his daddy and Charlie had gone away. But then the man asked him about his stars and he remembered how proud Charlie had been each time he got one. After all the stars and praise that Jim had given him, Don had been sure that Charlie had decided to keep him. He unconsciously rubbed the chalk in his pocket. Now, here was another man who said he would give him stars. And he had a nice big smile and was saying nice things, just like Jim. Don was sure that Charlie would be even prouder of him if he earned more stars. Bravely, Don tried to ignore the fear and anxiety he was feeling as he was overwhelmed with the desire to please his brother, making him forget everything his Mommy had warned him about strangers and the bad things that could happen.

"That's a nice rabbit you have there, beautiful. What's his name?"

"Bbbb-uuu-dddy."

"He's a beautiful rabbit. Would he like to earn some stars, too?"

Don slowly nodded his head.

"Let's get in my car and we'll go earn some. I have lots and lots of them at my house."

Don hesitated when the man tried to help him out of his seat. He looked around for his daddy.

"Are you looking for curly-head? He's going to meet us at my house."

Don's face showed surprise. _Is that where Charlie went?_ Don remembered how Jim sent Olivia ahead with Daddy to get everything ready so he could practice eating. This man must have sent Charlie and Daddy ahead to get things ready so he could earn more stars.

"Charlie?" he asked.

"Right- Charlie. And your daddy, too. They'll both be there. They're going to be so happy when they see how many stars you earned for doing everything I teach you."

Knowing from experience that he had made a convincing plea, Percy wrapped his arm around the _kid_, helping him out of the old man's car and into his own, keeping his body in a position so that it was blocking the _kid's _line of sight to his dad. He checked one more time to make sure the old man was not looking, snickering when he saw that he was still busy on the phone. When he finally had his prey all buckled into his passenger seat, Percy took one last moment to look him over. He momentarily cupped Don's face softly in his hands.

"Beautiful, I'm _positive_ you're going to be my prize pupil."

Don smiled back at him innocently, stars in his eyes.

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Olivia was leaving the back exit when she ran into Jim. They stood to the left of the door, talking about different patients, the institute, stupid rules made by owners who were not present, and various end-of-the-day topics. After a while, they began to discuss their new patient.

"He really is the sweetest thing," Olivia said, enjoying the glint of jealousy that glittered at the corners of Jim's eyes.

"For now. He used to be an F.B.I. agent. Don't think it'll be long before that mean streak appears again." Jim tried to make the remark impersonal. However, he failed, becoming angry with himself for both sounding jealous and for talking badly about a patient.

"I don't know. Don has the softest brown eyes I have ever seen. You can tell by his physique that he was tough. But mean- never."

Despite himself, Jim ran his eyes over his own body, taking inventory. Too thin, he thought. He looked up to see the bemused smile of Olivia, and he blushed in response, turning his gaze to the floor. That's when he saw one of the forks that had been in Don's package. It had rolled against the far wall. Picking it up, he showed it to Olivia and asked, "Isn't this one of Don's utensils?"

"Uh, oh. His dad dropped the bag when I handed it to him. I thought he picked everything up, but somehow, he must have missed this. Nothing we can do about it now- they must have left a while ago."

Jim looked at the exit door and caught sight of Alan bending over to pick something up from the ground. "No, Mr. Eppes is still here. He's standing near the door."

Surprised, Olivia took the fork from Jim and went back to the exit. She opened the door and saw Alan stepping away from the building; she was about to walk after him when she looked beyond him across the parking lot to his car, noticing a man lowering himself on its other side, as if into a smaller car. The breath caught in her throat, because she recognized him. Olivia had seen him driving back and forth behind the institute on more than one occasion. She had notified an administrator, who admonished her to keep her suppositions to herself, their clients didn't need any more stress; and security, who had stated that they could not do anything about people innocently driving on public streets,

But Olivia was not oblivious to the darker side of life, and she knew that there was nothing innocent about this man, or the reasons for him driving on those particular public streets. This man was a predator, he was hunting, and their institute contained the prey.

When she first got the feeling, she asked herself why she felt so positive about it. The answer was simple. It was because her woman's instinct told her so. Hadn't she seen the same look on letches who stared at her as if she were a glass of water- and they had been in the desert for days? Always, their tongues practically hung from their mouths as they crudely ran their eyes up and down her body.

Olivia had pointed the man out to a female friend of hers, and her friend had instantly shuddered. That guy, she had told Olivia, is evil. Her womanly intuition thus sustained, Olivia had taken it upon herself to keep an eye out for the clean-cut businessman. But, she thought guiltily, she hadn't seen him in over a month, and had let her guard down, leaving open an undefended path that led straight to her new favorite patient: Don Eppes.

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Percy couldn't help but grin at the old man.

It was the old man's fault for talking on the phone so long.

And for being old, Percy laughed to himself, starting to push on his gas pedal.

Suddenly, a young body appeared in front of his car and he had to slam on his breaks. _Damn!_ He didn't need the cops called in for a hit and run that he'd no defense against; no one consented to being ripped in two by a car. He shoved the gear on his steering wheel towards reverse, pressing the gas pedal with all of his strength.

But he didn't go anywhere.

_What the hell?_

Percy realized his mistake too late. He had pushed the gear all the way to park. Before he could make the correction, his door was wrenched open and two strong arms tore him from his seat, throwing him to the ground, where he lay on his back. His attempt to rise was vanquished by the harsh thrust of a foot to his crotch, making the torso of the very unlucky man bend inwards and flop onto its left side. The only vocalizations Percy was capable of making were soft grunts of pain as he held himself.

Olivia stood above Percy, hands on hips. Jim rushed over and stood behind her, making sloppy karate chops in the air with his hands and feet, the general direction of his movements down toward the rocking body of Percy.

"My hero," Olivia said to Jim, rolling her eyes because she knew he could not see the motion from his position in back of her.

"Anytime, anywhere- I'm your fighting soldier," he said proudly, reaching around Olivia and tapping Percy on a foot with one of his own, then jumping back a yard when the aching man glared at him.

"Where's Don?" Jim asked, looking at Percy's empty car and the passenger door that sat ajar. They looked over the hood and noticed Alan had already confiscated his son. Alan had a firm grip on the arm of a crying Don, and was dragging him around the front of Percy's car, where he left him against the front grill, demanding that he not move.

"Mr. Eppes," Olivia tried to talk to Alan, but he ignored her. Instead, he got into the driver seat of his car and carefully pulled it forward, keeping his eyes on Don. When he had driven up past Percy's car, he got out and went to get Don, helping him back into the passenger seat and seatbelt of his car. Jim went to Alan, "I called the police. You have to wait until they get here." Alan's eyes flamed, making Jim flee to the protection that Olivia afforded. After getting into his car, Alan locked the doors and sped off, streaks of rubber imprinted into the asphalt.

A security guard came running across the lot towards Olivia and Jim.

"We were checking out a complaint on the other side of the building. I came when the main office saw you pull that guy from the car and reported it to us." The guard looked at the man curled up on the ground. "Looks like you have it all under control."

Olivia did not feel like she was under control. She was still steaming with the thoughts of what she was positive this man- _this thing_- had planned to do to her patient.

"Yes," she said hollowly, "We do. Maybe you can go check and see if the police went to the front lot by mistake."

"Fine, I'll be right back."

Jim stood next to Olivia, nervously bouncing on his heels, his hands starting to rub together. "Don't you think we should have asked him to wait with us? You never know what might happen while we're all alone with this guy."

Olivia smiled at him, her teeth the focal point of the protective expression on her face, a look that was indicative of a grizzly bear saving her cub while in the process of tearing the flesh from whatever had threatened it. Jim was frightened, and had to step three feet away from her.

"Do you think they can see us on the security cameras all the way to our feet?" Olivia calmly asked. Jim looked at her shoes, not understanding the purpose of her question. "And on the other side of this car door?" she said, stepping around so that she was leaning on the interior of the still-open driver's door, facing Percy, who was attentive to her maneuvers but unable to move from his fetal position. Before Jim could answer either of her two questions, Olivia lay forward against the opening of the car door, gaining leverage, and kicked Percy in the lower chest. She swung her foot with short, hard strokes, not stopping until she heard the distinct crunch of at least one rib breaking.

As Percy shuddered and gasped for air, Olivia turned to Jim, her smile gone and an angelically serene look on her face.

I was right, Jim thought with a newfound fear and admiration for his coworker, I would never have known _this _would happen while we were alone with this guy.

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Alan drove all the way home without looking at his son, the only sound in the car the sobbing that Don continued to do. Alan's mind was long gone, lost in the agony of the mistaken belief that he had almost allowed Dr. Thompson to take his son a second time. He knew his son was crying out of control next to him, but he couldn't do anything about it. Alan was trying to get _himself _under control, knowing he could not offer any comfort to Don until he stopped shaking, but he was finding his attempts to calm down utter failures. He just drove and drove, trying to put distance between Don and the man who he believed was a dangerous threat to his son.

When they pulled into their driveway, Alan shut off the engine to the car and found himself unable to leave the safety the metal box seemed to give them. He was still trembling, but he reached for Don anyway, knowing that he had probably scared Don more than the strange man. He hadn't meant to. Alan had just responded as any parent would. He had tried to get his son as fast and far away from a known danger as he could, not wanting to take the time that would have been necessary to offer an explanation to his confused son. Taking off both of their seatbelts, Alan tried soothing Don, but found that his words were ineffective- to his ears as well.

Don did not understand what had happened. Olivia had taken the man out of the car and hurt him really bad. Then, Daddy was hurting his arm, pulling him out and making him lean against the hard front of the car. I must have been really bad, Don thought, for his daddy to be so mean to him. He tried to stop crying, but he couldn't seem to control the tears. They came and came. When his daddy finally put his arms around him, Don could feel how they were shaking, scaring him even more. He was sure something bad had happened. Something so bad that even his daddy couldn't help being afraid. And if daddy couldn't protect him, who could? Now Don was crying for Charlie… and his mommy.

It took a long time and a lot of soft apologies, but Alan was able to get Don to stop crying and got him safely into the house. Don sniffled all the way up the stairs, and then practically fell on his bed from the emotional and physical exertions of the day. When Alan unsnapped and unzipped Don's jeans, he remembered the diuretic.

"Let's use the bathroom before you go to sleep, Donny." He gave up on the thought, though, as Don had slipped onto his side, his thumb and Buddy in place for a good night's sleep. Alan decided to let his son rest a while. He knew Charlie would eventually be home and he could help him manipulate Don to the rest room. After tucking Don under the blankets, Alan went downstairs and checked all the doors and windows in the house, locking all of them tightly. The last one he locked led to the garage. He checked inside to see if Charlie happened to have beat them home and was working in there. Finding no one, he shut the door, locking it tight.

Alan walked to the bottom of the stairs leading to the second floor and his son's room, collapsing on the first four steps, a guardian against the evils of the world.

Then he dropped his head into his hands, sobbing, allowing himself the release because he mistakenly thought his son was in a safe place, and he could finally take the time to focus on his own emotional needs.

But Alan had locked the doors and windows much too late.

Because the predator he was trying to keep from hurting Don had been patiently waiting upstairs for hours.

And she was currently stepping from her hiding place and heading down the hall towards the room of his sleeping son, ready to pounce.


	33. How She Used Me

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

Author's note: Yes, more angst on the longest Monday in history. No, I am not trying to drag this out- just trying to detail because it's the way the story has been going. I will be having a few more lighthearted brother episodes coming up. Then, yes, _more _angst. By now, ya gotta at least have an idea where I'm heading. And yeah, I'm going there.

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While the Eppes men were busy at the institute Monday afternoon, Dr. Melinda Thompson parked her little white car in their neighbor's driveway, put a large purse over her arm, and casually made her way to the back door of their home. She had been pleasantly surprised to see that there was no bodyguard staking out the place across the street. Smugly, she opened kitchen door and walked right in. _In this day and age, who doesn't lock their doors_? She shook her head, the lack of security a new affirmation that neither her son's daddy nor his brother was appropriately equipped to care for her son. Glancing about, she opened the refrigerator and cabinet doors, noting the lack of supplements and wondering what they planned to feed her son. _Lucky I brought him a few more bottles._ Just thinking about holding her son and feeding him made her heart ache, and she had to lean against the counter, her hand pressed to her breast. _Soon, Donny, soon._

Knowing that their appointments would be all day- _that detective sure got a lot of information from the nurse at the institute-_ she meandered throughout the house. She smiled when she saw the stack of cartoons next to the television, as well as the train she had personally picked out and listed for her son, all set up on the coffee table. It was obvious to her that they continued to help him maintain a semblance of the routine she had taught him. Looking at the walls, she was pleased to see that there were no pictures of his other mother hanging in the few picture frames scattered about. _It's only appropriate, 'cause in another week, I'll be his only mommy._

Melinda walked upstairs, looking into each room as she passed. She easily found her son's room, as it was decorated as she had dictated in the directions she had slipped into his jeans. _Hmmmm- they went with the baseball motif today. _Deciding to come back to do a more thorough search of the room, she looked into the other bedrooms. She thought it curious that the bedspreads were stiff and there were pockets of dust floating in the air, as if the rooms were not being regularly utilized. Melinda picked up the edge of a bed skirt and looked underneath, judging the space to be large enough for her to hide in. Dropping the lace back to the floor, she sauntered back to her son's room. Immediately, her eyes were drawn to the closet. _Now, why would the dresser be in front of it?_

Taking the time to check and see if anyone had pulled up front, and satisfied that they hadn't, Melinda pulled the dresser away from the closet, ignoring the photo of her son with his father and brother attached to the corner of the mirror; once the dresser was moved a few feet, she opened the closet door and looked inside. She scanned the small space with her keen eyes, inventorying the sports equipment and clothes that were piled within. The only object that stood out was a lockbox, leaning on its side amongst the mess. It was cleared of dust and was obviously not in a position of long-forgotten repose as were the other items. Melinda picked it up and put it on the dresser, trying every way she could think to open it, frustrated when she could not get the lid unlocked. Giving up, she closed the closet and pushed the dresser back in front of it. Gathering up the lockbox and throwing her purse over her arm, she left the room, walking down the hall to the other bedroom. Once inside, she dropped to her knees and pushed her possessions under the bed, slinking underneath and pulling down the bed skirt, and then lying in a comfortable position, anticipating a long wait. But, like any predator whose quarry was within reach, she was more than patient enough when it came to waiting.

Time took a meandering taxi, making each minute seem like an hour, but still, Melinda laid still. Eventually, she heard the sound of movement from outside the bedroom door. The room was dark, the night having moved in over an hour before. When she heard heavy footsteps sound down the stairs, she quietly came out of her hiding place, dragging the lockbox and purse behind her. She opened the door, carefully peeking out- no one was in sight. After taking off her shoes, she padded stealthily down to her son's room, gently opening the door and peering inside: good, he was alone. Suddenly, the doorbell echoed through the house, and a few minutes later, voices floated up to her from the first floor, catching her interest. Leaving the door ajar, she silently glided to the top of the stairs and cautiously listened.

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When the doorbell rang, Alan was hesitant to answer it. He did not think his nerves could handle talking to anybody, especially if they were the bearer of more bad news. But after it rang the second time, he could see the telltale hat of a police officer through the upper window set in the door. Wiping his face quickly with a handkerchief, he got up with a creak from the stairs and answered the door.

"Did you arrest her?" Alan couldn't help blurting out the question to the two young officers standing at the door, one with shaved blond hair and the other with dark black curls peaking out from under his cap. They looked quizzically at one another before taking off their caps and asking if they could come in and talk.

"Sure." Alan opened the door and let the officers in. "Would you like some coffee, or tea? Anything?" He found himself speaking too fast. When the officers responded that it wasn't necessary, Alan led them to the living room, showing them the couch while he sat in the recliner. He realized his mouth and eye had started twitching again, so he tried to nonchalantly rest his cheek on his hand, pressing down to try to keep the convulsive movement in check.

"You arrested her?" Alan's knee began to vibrate, his nerves desperately searching for an outlet.

"Sir," the blond one spoke, "I'm Officer Henderson and this is my partner Officer Reynolds. We are here about the apparent abduction attempt that was made on your son a little more than an hour ago."

"Of course, that is what I am talking about."

Pulling a pad out and perusing its contents, Reynolds inquired, "From eyewitness statements, the supposed abductor was a Perceival Jackson- _male?_"

Alan released his face and ran his nails into his legs. "I don't know what his name was, but, yes, sure, the person who tried to take my son was male. But the person behind this attempt is female- her name is Dr. Thompson and she first kidnapped him over two months ago. We only recently recovered him."

Henderson sat forward in his seat, rubbing his lower lip. "That may be so- I mean, in regards the kidnapping two months ago, but this attempt tonight…"

The doorbell rang again and Alan ran to answer it. He was becoming impatient with the officers because it sounded as if they had not arrested Thompson. Throwing open the door, he was relieved to see David facing him. "Alan, I'm sorry. I don't want to scare Don, but I was sitting across the street and saw the police car pull up out front- just wondering if anything is wrong?"

Loaded question of the century, Alan thought, but his impatience and nervousness receded as he grabbed the young agent's arm, clutching it like a life preserver. "Yes, there is something wrong, but, no, don't worry about scaring Don- he's sound asleep upstairs." Desperately drawing David into the house, Alan sealed the door shut with a slam and led the agent into the living room to be his backup against Thompson.

After introductions were made, Alan leaned against the entryway leading to the living room while he allowed David to sit in his recliner. He repeated his question a third time, "Did you arrest Thompson or not?"

"No, sir." Henderson. "We do not have any knowledge of a woman named Thompson- just this man Jackson." The officers looked to David for explanations, as Alan had restarted the twitching movement of his eye and mouth, and did not seem to be making any sense.

"Mr. Eppes' son is my boss." The officers tried to hide their shock at this revelation. Quickly, David continued, "He was kidnapped two months ago and sometime before or during his captivity, received a brain injury. Exactly what happened tonight?"

Alan briskly interrupted, "I'll tell you what happened- that bitch tried to take Donny again, only she paid someone to do it this time."

"Is this true?" David addressed the officers; he was also noticing that Alan was becoming unglued.

"Yes- and no. A little over an hour ago, a man tried to abduct a Don Eppes- but he seemed to be doing so for his own, uh…" The officers tried to convey their meaning to David, who quickly interpreted their looks.

Pulling himself to the edge of the recliner, David frowned. "And you have him in custody?"

"Yes, sir."

Alan strode into the room, hands on his hips. "But when are you going to arrest Thompson- why haven't you said _she's_ in custody?"

David stood up and walked to the older man, gently took his arm and led him to the recliner, tugging on his arm until he was seated. Kneeling beside him, he softly explained, "I know it sounds crazy, Alan, but this Jackson man tried to take Don all on his own. It's a separate incident from what happened before- Thompson isn't involved."

Sinking down into the back of the chair, Alan held his hand over his eyes. "But why then, what possible reason could he have for trying to take Don?"

David told the officers, "You can give him the basics, but don't give too many details." He took Alan's hand in his own, squeezing it as the officers began to explain what information they had gathered during their background check of Perceival Jackson, and the general activities he usually reserved for his special playmates. Ten minutes later, Alan staggered to the downstairs bathroom and collapsed to his knees, right before he began dry-heaving into the basin; David stood watch over him from the door, his own stomach in turmoil.

When Alan was finished, he allowed David to help him to his feet. "I need some fresh air, just a little."

"Do you want to go out back?" David put his arm around Alan's waist, trying to shoulder some of his weight.

"No, out front. I can see the bottom of the stairs from the front window." David realized Alan was afraid someone would sneak upstairs and try to take Don again. Leading them outside, David tilted his head to the officers as they passed, letting them know to follow.

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Melinda stood at the top of the stairs long enough to hear Henderson mention the abduction attempt on Donny. Sagging against the wall, she swore in her head- at the man who had tried to harm her son, and at Alan Eppes, for his carelessness for almost allowing it to happen. She slid back to Donny's room, slipping around the cracked door before shutting it softly behind her, placing her purse, shoes and the lockbox on the dresser, and then sidling up to her sleeping son. _Oh, baby. I need to get you out of here as soon as I can, before they let something bad happen to you._ She bent over Donny, pushing aside his hair. When he blinked open his eyes, she put a finger to his lips.

"Quiet, baby. We don't want to wake anyone up?"

Donny was lying on his right side. He looked behind him, and was surprised that his daddy wasn't there beside him. Disappointed when he noticed his brother was also not present, Donny knew that Charlie and his daddy had to be awake, because they always slept with him. But still, he was obedient to his mother and he kept his voice low as he reached for her.

"Miss you, Mommy."

Melinda lay down next to Donny and wrapped her arms around him, loving the fact that he did the same. She had missed his warmth so much. Kissing him on the head, she asked him if he had really missed her.

"Yes, Mommy." Donny was thinking about what had happened earlier that night- how frightened he had been and how his daddy had shook when he put his arms around him. Though he liked the protection he felt in his mother's strong arms, Donny realized he wished Charlie was there to offer the comfort. He was sure his brother's arms would be steady like Mommy's.

"Scared, Mommy."

"Did one of the bad men try to get you, baby?"

"Yes, Mommy……need you, Mommy." Donny hadn't been sure what had happened with the strange man earlier, but Mommy made sense when she said that he was bad and had tried to get him; no wonder Olivia had hurt him, and Daddy had been so scared. He shivered as he thought about what might have happened- _teeth._

Feeling her son trembling in her arms, Melinda's face showed pure fury. "Don't worry, baby. Mommy will take care of that bad man. You'll never see him again." She began to offer her own personal soothing words.

Within the safety of his mother's arms, Donny's fears wanned. Slowly, his mind wandered from the more recent events and he began to remember all the new and exciting things he had done that day. Trying to express his pride, he began, "Big boy, Mommy."

Frowning, Melinda tightened her grip on him. "Are you now, baby?" She laid her chin on top of her son's head, waiting to hear what damage had been done to him.

"Chewed today." Donny nestled against her breast, smiling as he thought about how Charlie had helped him swallow. "Charlie helped."

"He did, did he?"

"Yes, Mommy."

Don wanted his mommy to know everything. "No more bottles." He was sure that Mommy would be proud that he did not need to be fed like a baby anymore. She had _tried _to get him to eat by himself that one time, but he had not been able to do it. And didn't he make such a mess? That wouldn't happen anymore.

"Really, baby. Is that why you chewed today- so you won't have to drink bottles?"

"Yes, Mommy." Donny thought about the special tools he used to eat and drink. "Fed myself."

"All by yourself? Why, that's interesting, baby. What else did you do, baby." Melinda began to play with his hair as she listened tensely.

"Machines-pictures." His eyes went wide when he thought about how scared he had been. But Charlie had stayed with him, making everything better. "Charlie stayed me."

"He did, did he?" Melinda's fingers began to scratch into the pillow behind Donny's head.

"Picked up things, too." Pride leaked across Donny's face. He had done so many things, all because his brother had helped him. "Charlie showed me."

"My, my. Charlie is so _helpful, _now isn't he?"

Donny thought about everything Charlie did for him. He nodded his head against his mother. "Bathes me, Mommy."

"He does?" Melinda gritted her teeth. She knew he couldn't bathe himself, but it still angered her to know that somebody else was touching her son.

"Dressed me, Mommy." Donny wanted his mommy to know that she did not have to do everything for him anymore. Maybe if things were easier for her, she would take him with her. And he wanted her to know how helpful Charlie was, so his brother could go with them, too.

"Really, baby."

"Yes, Mommy." Thinking about Charlie and all the things his brother did for him, Donny began to remember the things Charlie had told him, too. "I'm man, Mommy." He wanted to convince her that he was a good boy, that he was a big boy, that he would not be such a burden to her- and it was all because of Charlie. "Like Daddy…..Like Charlie."

"You are, baby? Who told you that?" Melinda was sure she already knew the answer.

"Charlie, Mommy."

Rubbing his back, Melinda hissed her next question. "What else did Charlie say?"

Donny stiffened a little in her arms. He recognized her tone. Cautiously, he answered, "I cared for him." Still smiling, her son raised his head to look at her, hoping to see reflected in her eyes the same pride that he felt. Instead, his gaze was met by twin coals darker than the night. Donny shrank as his mommy coldly asked, "You did, baby? When was that, baby?"

"When we were small." Doubt began to creep back into Donny's thoughts.

"Really, baby. What did you do for him?" Melinda's tone was demanding.

Thinking hard, Donny couldn't remember. He answered with a voice that was barely audible, "Don't know, Mommy." The smile had disappeared from his face.

"Well," Melinda began in a mocking voice, "since you can't remember what you did for Charlie when you were small, maybe you can remember what you can do for him now?"

Though he tried to think of something he could do for his brother, Donny could not list a single thing. "Nothing, Mommy," he sadly admitted, lowering his head in embarassment.

"But I thought you were a man like your daddy and Charlie, baby?"

"I am, Mommy." Donny defiantly stated, his voice muffled as he was now pressing his face into his mother's breast, trying to hide the tears that were starting to gather in his eyes.

"_Really, _baby." Melinda stopped rubbing his back. "So, you're a man- _exactly like your daddy and Charlie_?'

"Yes, Mommy." Don's reply was not as sure as his previous one had been; doubt was no longer creeping into his thoughts but was beginning to ensnare them.

"So, you can eat just like your daddy and Charlie."

"With special tools." Donny replied, realizing that neither his brother nor his father needed to use them.

"And all by yourself?" Melinda demanded.

"No, I"- Donny could not finish, as his mommy cut him off.

"And you can take a bath by yourself?"

"No, Charlie"-

"Does Charlie and your daddy need help?"

"No, they"-

"And you can shave by yourself?"

"Daddy"-

"And you can put on your shirt?"

"No, Charlie"- Donny clamped his mouth shut. He was suddenly petrified, lying motionless against his mommy because she was running her hands along his body. He silently prayed that she would not notice his special briefs, but he felt her hand stop at the opening to his pants. Donny tried to squirm away from her, but she held him in place with her arms while her finger made a trail underneath his jeans.

Melinda smirked as she toyed with the plastic rim of her son's briefs. "And do your daddy and Charlie have plastic underwear, or do they get to wear the kind big boys do?"

Humiliation overcame Donny, and he began to cry, his face turned into the crook of his mommy's arm. _Charlie says they're only temporary, _he wanted to tell her, but he couldn't get the words to come out of his mouth.

"Well, _baby_," Melinda continued relentlessly, yanking her son's chin in her hand and forcing him to turn and look at her, "are you going to answer me. Do your daddy and Charlie have to"-

"Nuh, nuh, no," Donny stuttered, trying in vain to pull from her grip, gasping desperately for air while he tried to sputter his answers, easily broken by the woman from whom he had been separated for only a couple short weeks.

"No, what?" She squeezed his face.

"Nuh, nuh, Momm-mmy."

"Good. Now let's review. You can't feed yourself like your daddy and Charlie can?"

"Nuh, uh, nuh… Mo-mom-my."

"And you can't bathe or dress yourself like your daddy or Charlie can?"

"Nuh, nuh, nuh, Mommm"-

"And you can't shave or do anything else your daddy or Charlie can, now can you?"

"Nuh, nuh, nooooo. I…I…ca..ca…can't……….Mom..Mommy." Donny could no longer see or think clearly. He wanted to hide in shame- from his mommy, his daddy, and from Charlie.

But Melinda refused to let him go, holding his face in the vice-like grip of her hand.

"So, if you can't do anything your daddy or Charlie can do, and _they_ are men, I guess you can't be a man, now can you?"

"Nuh, Mommm…" Finding it hard to breath, Donny tried to sink inside himself, but his mommy's words continued to tear into him; the heartbreaking pain would not let him escape.

"So," Melinda released Donny's face, letting him burrow into the pillow while she sat up on the bed, "I guess you're still Mommy's little boy, now aren't you?" Her tongue flicked out as she grabbed the back of her son's head and pulled his face to hers. "Now, aren't you?"

"Yes, Mommy."

Melinda released him, letting his head fall back to the pillow. Stroking his hair, she softly assured him, "It's okay, baby. Mommy will take care of you." Donny curled into a ball and reached for Buddy. Though a part of him still wanted and needed and loved his mommy, he made the definite decision that he no longer wanted to be with her. Calming down by rubbing his rabbit's ear between his thumb and finger, Donny started looking to see if Charlie or his daddy was going to save him, his eyes fixing on his bedroom door.

Crossing to the door, Melinda gracefully walked to the top of the stairs and listened. Voices were coming from outside the front door. Deciding to risk some more time with her son, she headed back into his room, angry when she discovered him trying to sneak out of bed. Donny looked up and saw Melinda's expression; he quickly lay back down.

Taking her purse from the dresser, Melinda crossed to her son and pulled out a bottle. She knew if she were caught there, Donny's father would be angry. But he was allowed to have friends over, she was sure, and since the charges had been dropped against her, the elder Eppes would not be able to do anything but have her escorted from his house; and file a restraining order, but with her plans, she knew that would be in her favor, so feeding her son was a risk worth taking.

She lay back down next to Donny, who meekly allowed her to feed him, closing his eyes so he could pretend he was somewhere else. Perceptive of her son's change in attitude toward her, and the limited time she had left, Melinda switched the focus of her attack to Charlie- she was certain that Donny's non-stop talk about his brother was an indication that a strong bond had developed between them. She planned to use this bond as security that the directions she was going to give Donny would be followed by him- exactly.

"It sounds like Charlie has been a very bad little boy." Melinda said coyly. She smiled when she saw Donny's eyes flip open and stare at her. "Keep drinking, baby." She made circles on Donny's shoulder with her fingers while he finished his bottle. "Maybe I need to teach him how to be a good little boy. Do you think I need to do that?"

Donny tensed as she drew the bottle from his mouth. "No, Mommy." He licked his lips. "Charlie's good."

"I don't know, baby. It seems like he has been telling you a whole lot of lies. That doesn't sound like a good boy to me."

Sinking against his mommy, Donny tried to get her to stop talking about his brother. "Bottle, Mommy." Melinda complied, happily watching as her son sucked it down, trying to please her. "Well, now. You're beginning to act like a good little boy again." Her eyes traveled over his body, landing on the top of his jeans. She frowned thoughtfully. Putting a finger in a loop, she asked, "Where's your belt, baby?"

He tried not to, but he couldn't help it. Donny's eyes flew to the closet, but they made a detour along the way back, resting on the lockbox sitting on the dresser, seeing it for the first time that night. The fear in his eyes was enough for Melinda to know what she could expect to find in the container. _Clever little brother, baby. _Removing the second bottle from Donny's mouth, she packed her purse and took a firm hold on the lockbox. Stepping back to the bed, she sat down on the edge, running a finger across the top of the box, slow, languid circles that were followed obsessively by her son's eyes.

"It seems to me Charlie has been a bad, bad little boy."

"No, Mommy," Don rasped hoarsely.

"Maybe he needs some lessons on how to be a good little boy. What do you think, baby?"

"No, Mommy," Don said more clearly.

"I hate to think Charlie is telling you to disobey Mommy." Melinda stopped moving her fingers, instead screeching her nails down the outside of the metal lockbox.

Don winced. Leaning toward Melinda, he pleaded, "Please, Mommy………..not Charlie."

"Then show me how good you still are, baby."

"Please, Mommy," he begged, sitting up and trying to lay his head on her shoulder.

"You're going to a large room next week, with lots of people. You need to remember three things."

"Yes, Mommy," Donny promised, wrapping his arms around her, trying to keep her attention on him and only him.

"First, you can only call me Dr. Thompson. Repeat that, baby."

"Dr. Thompson," Donny recited, not caring what she wanted him to do, or whether or not it made sense. He just didn't want her to bring up Charlie again- or giving him lessons. He had finally remembered one of the things Charlie said he had done for him when he was little: Donny had protected his brother, and after all that Charlie had done for him, he knew he wanted to do it again.

"The second thing involves Doctor Wang- you remember him." Donny nodded. "Well, a man is going to ask you if Doctor Wang is your doctor or if Dr. Thompson is your doctor…"

"What you want….." Donny whispered. "All want, Mommy."

Cradling his face softly in her hand, Melinda told him, "Of course, baby. Your mommy's good little boy…


	34. How We Talked

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

Author's note: Love the scene between Brody and his son at the dining room table in 'Jaws', so I tried to write one in homage to it, only between Alan and Charlie, though, of course, not as good: can't do better than that perfect scene in the movie.

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Shutting the door behind him, Alan was glad his visitors had finally left. He leaned against the heavy wood of the door, hoping it was strong enough to keep the world out- a world that suddenly appeared to be after his eldest son. He was busy thinking about every wrong he had ever done in his life, wondering which bad act had propelled this evil into the bubble of safety that had previously comprised his family sphere. He knew Don's job had always been dangerous, and the Russian mob had even made a brief visit to their home, but somehow, being together, it had never seemed possible for them to be harmed. Now, there had been an outrageous increase in the number of dangers that were invading their familial safe haven, an increase that appeared to be in direct proportion to the rising closeness that was knitting his two sons together, himself a loose but attached thread in the pattern of their relationship.

While he continued to allow the door to prop him up, the sound of scraping caught Alan's attention. He looked out the front window and observed the police had already left. Debating his options, Alan thought about signaling David across the street, but he decided against it; he wanted to handle any other trouble that might arise that night, as he felt he had been neglectful in protecting Don earlier in the evening. Quietly, Alan stole into the kitchen and came back with a large knife, walking with steady purpose to the low screeching that was piercing his ears.

Alan stopped mid-stride when he heard a new noise- low rumblings, as if someone were talking. Stepping almost noiselessly, he carefully turned the knob of the door from behind which he now heard a scraping, then a soft voice whispering. Slowly, he pulled the door open, stepping around it and shutting it behind him with a soft thud. There was very little light, most of it coming from the moon shining in a far corner window. When his eyes adjusted to the dark, Alan walked forward a few steps, keeping the knife tightly in his hand, sweat starting to fall into his eyes, his facial twitch making an unwanted encore appearance…

There!

A figure moving in the corner, leaning over a small container; he could barely make out long black hair…

"Charlie! Why the hell are you standing in the garage with the lights off?"

At the sound of his father's voice from behind his back, Charlie jumped. He tried to conceal within the small container the papers he had absentmindedly been reading aloud. "I, uh, didn't want to wake you or Don." He turned to face Alan, trying to make out his father's facial expression in the dark, but the shadows had encompassed the elder man.

Alan stepped back to the door and flicked on the lights, his knife released and clanging to the floor. Charlie saw the knife and assumed his father had suspected him a burgler or Thompson- in either case, he thought a weapon would have been a good idea. He started walking toward Alan, his plan to leave, when he was stopped sharply in his tracks by his father's harsh, accusing voice.

"Where the hell were you?"

Charlie swallowed nervously. Numbers began to catapult randomly through his head as he tried to organize the new set of data his father was presenting him. Charlie was swarmed with a mixture of two feelings at the information that he was receiving from his father's strong, stern voice, from his harsh accusing words, and the hands held firmly on his hips, his eyes glaring at Charlie with an anger that had never, ever been directed at him before- a million times at Don, but not him, not Charlie. And it was this realization that his father was finally looking and talking to him as an adult, not like a fragile child who could not fend for himself, that made Charlie be overwhelmed with his first feeling, that of complete manhood, a mixture of pride and strength he had never thought himself capable of having, feeling it was an unattainable characteristic available to his father and brother, but somehow denied to him. But, now, his father was not hesitating to direct unadulterated fury at him, obviously not concerned that poor Charlie could not handle it, and oh, did it feel good, being in this position of equality with his father.

The second feeling he was wrestling with was fear, unabated fear, because- _damn, his father was directing unadulterated fury at him._ And Charlie did not know what to do, because, yes, he had never been the object of that anger before, and he could not ask Don what to do, as he was usually the one in this position, because his brother would not remember. Besides, even if he did remember, he wouldn't want to wake him up, and it would probably upset Dad if he talked to Don about it, and besides, there didn't seem to be any escape at this point to get to Don, as his father was standing in front of the door that led to safety, a sharp knife at his feet.

Charlie realized he was rambling in his own mind. Trying to stand tall, in relation to the floor if not to the towering man before him, he calmly replied- to his ears at least- "I told you, I had business to take care of. When I was finished, I decided to stop by CalSci before coming home."

Alan took two steps toward Charlie, who stepped back three, his back against the small container and papers he had been busy with. It only took a moment for Alan to see the papers, and how Charlie was trying to hide them. Angrily, Alan pushed his son aside and snatched them up, crumbling them in his fingers as he shook them in further accusation.

"While you were busy with more of your damn numbers research, your brother was almost…was almost…" Alan faltered, releasing the sheets of paper to fall loosely to the floor, his face suddenly pale as his mind was flooded with images of Perceival Jackson and Don, the words of the police officers narrating his nightmare. Charlie discarded his fear and ran to him with concern, taking a hold of his elbow and helping him sit shakily on the couch.

For the second time that night, Alan cried into his hands, Charlie putting his arms around his father's shoulders, frightened at the display. "Dad, I'm sorry. Whatever I did, I'm sorry."

Alan rested his head on the back of the couch, wiping his eyes with his damp handkerchief, moving the tears about his face rather than drying them. "No, Charlie. I'm the one who's sorry. I insisted Don come home, that I could take care of him. I found out tonight that I made a terrible mistake- I'm too old, and…useless, stupid, I don't know what, but something's wrong with me. A simple car trip home and I managed to mess it up."

Charlie pulled his arms away from his father, anxiety peppering his eyes. "What do you mean, 'messed it up'?" Alan lowered his head again; he was shameful of what he was going to admit to his son, that he had allowed someone to put Don in his car and almost steal him away. Looking at his feet, Alan recounted the events of the evening, continuing even as he felt Charlie's body tighten next to him.

When Alan finished talking, both men sat quietly, one contemplating his worthlessness as a father, the other trying to wash his mind of images, dark images, which the name Perceival Jackson was evoking insidiously behind his eyes.

In time, Charlie was able to clear his head. He knew there was nothing that he could presently do about the horrible deeds a stranger had tried to commit against his family, but he also knew his father was emotionally hurt from the incident and needed some reassurance, which could readily be supplied.

"Dad, don't call yourself useless or stupid."

"What do you call a man who would let that happen to his child?"

"A victim, an innocent, a good man, but stupid- never. You can't blame yourself because there are bad people in the world."

"But I know there are, and still, I didn't protect my son."

"Then you have to blame every victim of a crime for every bad thing that happens to them."

"No, I don't. Because not everyone knows the dangers that are out there. I'm an old man, Charlie- don't shake your head at me, I am. Maybe not ancient, but old enough to know better than to leave my defenseless son all alone in a car."

"If you want to call yourself old, then fine- look at it from that point of view. You've had a long, tiring day- both emotionally and physically, so you were making decisions with an exhausted mind and carrying them out with an exhausted body. It's hard to make the best decisions when you're at your physical and emotional worst."

"But to leave Don all alone- you don't need to be a genius to know that was a big mistake."

"Less than three months ago, you were letting Don go out all by himself to crime scenes and gunfights."

"He was a different person then." Sad thoughts floated in Alan's mind as he fleetingly regretted the loss of his brave, strong son.

"I know that, you know that. But it will probably take some more time to change our behaviors regarding this new person we're dealing with. Don's only been home four days, and I think we're all adjusting to the changes pretty well. Still, we can't be expected to always know what's best when we're faced with a new situation; we'll learn as each one comes along. You're a great dad, but statistically speaking, you still had to have made a high number of mistakes when making decisions about me and Don when we were younger."

"If saying I screwed up a lot when you and Donny were younger is your way of cheering me up, the odds are in favor of your technique failing."

"I'm trying to point out that despite the mistakes, overall, you did a great job. Your mistakes were like corrupted data; if one allowed that data to define the overall system, then one would predict that both Don and I would have ended up corrupted ourselves. But ignore the mistakes, and stick with the positive data- all the things you did correctly-then one is led to the positive adult lives that, until recently, Don and I have truly been leading."

"In this case, though, my mistake could have shut down the system entirely, and corrupted data would have been all that was left."

"But that didn't happen. And now that we're aware of this particular flaw in our system design, or the way in which we protect Don, we can make changes to correct it. Consider it a necessary learning experience."

"I don't know, Charlie. I appreciate you trying to find something positive in all that happened, but I still think my actions were careless, to say the least."

"Don needed his eating tools and you didn't expect to be delayed- I would have gone to get them, too. And that news from Harvey about Thompson- it would upset anyone in your situation. I think I might have fainted if I had been alone when first hearing about it."

"Charlie, you're my flesh and blood- telling me you'd faint from bad news reflects poorly on me, too, you know."

Charlie looked up in surprise, allowing himself a smile when he saw his father also had one, though it was barely affixed to his face. Alan patted Charlie on the knee. "My anger was really not at you, Charlie- it was at myself, for the mistake I made, and because I've had to become so dependent on you."

Bouncing off the couch, Charlie began to pick up his papers. "Believe it or not, Dad, I like being able to help- this dependence you refer to in such a negative manner has actually caused a positive effect to occur in my life. It has allowed me to become a real part of our relational equation." Thinking about the time his father and Don had argued about him while he was standing a few feet away, neither of the angry men ackowledging the youngest Eppes, who had been standing _right there_ next to them, Charlie explained, "Sometimes, before, I've felt like I didn't exist in this family, like I was an anomaly that no one could detect."

"I'm sorry. I know neither I nor Donny meant to make you feel that way." Alan leaned over and picked up a loose paper that had escaped Charlie's grasp. Peering at it closely, Alan frowned. "Charlie, is this an application for a mortgage?"

Averting his eyes from his father, Charlie took the paper, stacked it with the others, and placed them back into the container he had been trying to hide them in. After closing the lid, Charlie put the container on a shelf, keeping his back to his father. He then put his own hands on his hips, his chin resting on his chest as he thought, not sure if he wanted to discuss the subject with his father, but relenting in the end; his father was too stubborn to allow him to avoid the issue, and they were both too tired to debate whether they should talk about it or not.

"That's where I went tonight. The bank loan officer stayed late for me- once he looked up our house and found out its value. That, and the fact that I paid cash for it, so there are no other mortgages attached to it." Sighing, Charlie faced his father, leaning lightly against a chalkboard. "I went to CalSci when I was done getting the papers. I wanted to fill them out there." His eyes drifted. "I didn't want to bother you with them."

"You can't fool me, Charlie. You didn't want me to _know_."

Turning his eyes towards his father again, Charlie replied, "Yes, because I knew you wouldn't approve."

"You're right, I wouldn't and I don't. This is your house, Charlie, not ours, and I won't allow you to risk losing it because of my lack of funds."

Charlie approached Alan, stopping in front of him and asserting the new manhood he felt working its way through his bones. "First, you can't allow or disallow me this. You're right, it's _my_ house and I can do with it what I please." Alan's eyes froze open in surprise. "Second, it's not about _you _having funds or not having funds. I'm doing this for Don- _and for me." _

Sitting down next to his father so they could face each other on an equal level, Charlie explained, "You don't know how much I enjoy spending this time with Don. And the challenge it is to be able to teach him- a challenge I am enjoying, too. Maybe it's wrong to feel good about any of this- I've thought about it, believe me- but in the end, I don't care if it's right or wrong; I just know it's what I want."

"I told you I could go back to work," Alan offered weakly.

"I know, but I need you. You can't do this alone, and neither can I. I've looked at all the variables, I've worked the problem forward and back, and I always come up with the same solution. A mortgage will give us the money we need for any more unforeseen costs concerning Don's rehab- and lawyer costs, too. Don't forget, we don't know what that Thompson woman is up to- she might do something that requires paying Johnson more money. I would rather be prepared than have to scramble at the last minute to come up with ready cash."

Alan ran a hand down his face. "Charlie, I know you're making sense, but, what if you lose your home- our home?"

"Our house isn't home without Don. If I don't take out this mortgage and we lose him- to Thompson, or because we didn't take that extra step in therapy, this house will hold no value to me anyway. And I suspect it'll hold no value to you, either."

Alan smiled, broadly. "When did you become so smart?

Charlie stood up, offering a helping hand to his father. "Always been smart."

"Really," Alan said, putting an arm around Charlie, in fatherly support and for his own physical support, exhaustion making a repeat appearance. "Well, don't blame my side of the family- you must get it from your mother."

"I thought we agreed you wouldn't refer to yourself as stupid."

As they went through the door, they stopped while Charlie bent over and picked up the knife Alan had dropped.

"Nice choice, Dad. Wouldn't mind using this on Thompson myself."

When they continued through the door, shutting the light off after them, Alan commented, "Maybe we could use it to make rib eye out of her."

"Don't know about that- I doubt any part of her is tender."

"There you go again, showing off your smarts…"

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Melinda left her son after he had made repeated promises to do as she said, and say what she wanted him to say in court. With a frosty smile, she kissed him goodbye, obliquely carrying the lockbox under her arm as she exited the room, knowing his eyes were fixated on it until it disappeared from his line of sight. Peering over the top banister, she heard voices coming from the garage. She tip-toed down the stairs, then she fled through the dining room through the kitchen to the backdoor. There she stopped, putting on her shoes and making calculations about her chances of being caught exiting. Melinda realized she could be accused of more than trespassing- with the lockbox in her arms, she could be charged with breaking and entering. Refusing to give up her own newfound manipulative tool, she took the empty bottles out of her purse and replaced them with the lockbox, covering it with the flap.

Maliciously, she decided to flaunt her ability to enter and leave her son's life at will. She wiped the bottles inside and out, cleaning off her fingerprints. Next, she used her shirt to open the refrigerator door, leaving the two bottles sitting on the top shelf, obvious to anyone who looked inside. Then, when Melinda took her leave, she left the backdoor ajar; just a fraction of an inch, believing it a symbol of the thin space that she felt separated her and her son-

a space she could easily traverse whenever and however she desired.

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"Why don't I make us something to eat?" Charlie offered as he and Alan reentered the house.

Stifling a yawn, Alan replied, "I don't know- it's awfully late."

"Neither one of us has eaten since breakfast- nor will we be any good to Don if we start ignoring our own needs. Come on- I'll make a couple frozen dinners." Charlie headed to the kitchen before his father could protest.

"I'll go check on Donny." Alan went up the stairs to his son's bedroom door, opening it a few inches and looking in on him. Don was asleep, snoring softly around his thumb. Alan watched him sleep, thanking God that his son was safe, and that he could feel so much better and relaxed when Charlie was around and his family was together. Alan put a hand to his face and contemplated his recent facial ticks; he observed how they usually faded away when he was near his two sons. Alan assumed it was because it was impossible for his nerves to perform that unrestrained motion against the lines that defensively formed around his eyes and mouth each time he smiled hard, something he tended to do when his sons did something to make him proud- like Don's attempt at grasping earlier in the day, and Charlie's decision to obtain a mortgage in order to pay for therapy and legal costs for his brother. Thinking about what his youngest son had so selflessly planned to do, Alan decided that no matter how many awards Charlie had won or might continue to win in mathematics, as compared to the way he was caring for his brother, in his book, there would never be anything that counted as much.

"Ready to eat, Dad!" Charlie called from the dining room.

Alan plodded down the stairs, aware for the first time in hours that he was hungry.

"Looks good, Charlie. And you're quick, too." Alan watched as Charlie set the dinner trays on the table amidst a couple forks and napkins.

"Give credit to the microwave."

Alan headed into the kitchen. "I will as soon as I'm done thanking the refrigerator for our nice cold tea." When he walked into the kitchen, Alan grabbed a couple glasses from a cabinet and went to get a pitcher of tea from the refrigerator. When he opened the door, he frowned. Two bottles appeared to frown back at him. He took them out and threw them in the trash, then filled the two cups with tea and exited into the dining room.

"Thanks, Dad. See, together we make a pretty good team."

Alan sat down, smiling at Charlie. "If we're the team, what does that make Donny?"

"The coach of course- his rehab decides every move we make."

"I think your brother would like knowing you made him coach."

The two men ate in silence, both wanting to bring up a topic that was different from one another, but both afraid what they had to say would hurt or offend the other. Finally, Alan and Charlie pushed away their food trays and said in unison, "I think we need to talk about…" They leaned back in their chairs, grinning at each other.

"Well, I guess we both have something to say," Alan started, tossing his napkin in his empty food tray.

"Yeah, I think we do." Charlie imitated his father, tossing his napkin at his tray, but missing by an inch. After putting it in the tray, he sat back again, not wanting to avoid his chosen topic but afraid that bringing it up would make his father feel guilty again for having left Don alone in the car. "Why don't you go first?"

"No, Charlie, I insist- you first."

"All right." Charlie leaned on his arms, choosing his words carefully. "Since this incident happened tonight, I was thinking- uh, maybe we _are_ a little careless sometimes. I mean, we're not used to these kinds of, uh, assaults?"

Alan leaned on his arms, too, directly across from his youngest, each man a similar but not exact reflection of the other. "I think you're right, Charlie. I- we- need to be more careful about everything we do concerning Don." Charlie nodded, glad his father seemed to be thinking the same way as he was. "That includes what the doctor tells us to do."

Charlie frowned. His father wasn't thinking along the same lines as he was after all.

"I agree, Dad. But I also think we need to be more careful about other things- like, maybe we should be more careful about locking up the house, you know, checking the doors at night and when we leave."

Alan clasped his hands together. "Agreed. And when the doctor says we should make changes, like getting rid of those bottles, I think we have to agree that it's best for Donny- even if it's something he might not be too crazy about doing."

Charlie clasped his own hands, glad that they understood each other. "So, from now on, when one of us leaves the house, or comes home, we'll make sure to lock up."

"Yes, Charlie. I'll keep doing that. And for your part, you'll have to promise me no more bottles."

"Promise. Uh, and you'll have to promise not to leave the back door open again." Before Alan could reply, Charlie added, "And I threw away Don's last bottles at the institute this afternoon- I even made sure we don't have any more supplement in the house."

Alan sat up rigidly. "Charlie, why do you want me to promise not to leave the doors unlocked? When I got home tonight, I locked every outside door; I even locked all the windows on the lower floor."

Charlie began to sweat. "But, the back door- when I went to get our dinners, it was open. Only a little bit, but it wasn't locked." Seeing the fear swirling in his father's eyes, Charlie asked him, "Why did you ask about the bottles?"

Alan thickly replied, "Because there were two empty ones in the refrigerator."

Both of them thought of Dr. Thompson at the same time. And as one, they pushed back their chairs and raced up the stairs to Don's room, Charlie skidding into the room and landing against the recliner with a loud thud. Alan was right behind him, stopping long enough to turn on the lights. He and Charlie clamored to Don's bed, catching their breath when they saw that, despite their ruckus and the glare of the light, that he was sound asleep, his energy having been completely sucked dried.

Alan bent down and looked under the bed. Finding no one, he shut off the light, pointing Charlie to the hallway. When they were both outside again, Alan told his son, "Stay here and watch your brother. I'm going to check this house from top to bottom."

As his father took off down the stairs, Charlie went back to sit a vigil with his brother, continuously running his fingers through his hair in worry, waiting for his father's return. When Alan re-entered the room a half-hour later, Charlie bolted from his seat. They whispered in the light from the door.

"Any signs of her?"

"No, Charlie. Nothing but those bottles- and that door." Alan was carrying the knife again. When Charlie stared at it, Alan put it in the nightstand next to the bed. Returning to Charlie, he said, "She wanted us to know she was here. But when, and why, leave those empty bottles?"

"Do you think she could have made it up here to Don?"

"If she came in while we were at the institute and was hiding in one of our bedrooms- yeah, I think so. Once I left Don, I was only downstairs for a little while. After that, I spent the better part of an hour outside with David and those officers."

"Since she's not here now, she must have snuck out while we were in the garage." Charlie clenched his fists. "I bet she made Don drink those bottles; she's trying to ruin the progress he's going to make with his therapy and medicine."

Alan slapped a hand to his head. "Oh, no! I completely forgot." He walked quickly to the bed and pulled up a corner of the blanket, patting the bedding underneath. Charlie came up behind him and stared over his shoulder.

"Is there anything wrong? She didn't hurt him?"

Alan removed his hand and sighed tiredly. "No, not directly. Dammit. Turn on the light, Charlie, and start a bath for your brother."

Charlie immediately understood the problem- the diuretics and the excess liquid had not made an equitable combination. He went and started bath water, returning to find Don sitting on the edge of the bed, swaying back and forth, hardly awake. Alan was holding his shoulder, trying to steady him. "Charlie, keep an eye on him while I go get some cleaners and new sheets, blankets…I guess everything." Switching places with his father, Charlie gripped Don's shoulder firmly, watching his father walk with growing frustration from the room.

Don leaned toward Charlie, who saw the top blanket was dry and sat down as close as he could to his brother. Don's bleary eyes looked at Charlie, and then down at his jeans. A small flush appeared on his cheeks, and he turned his face away.

"Sworry, sworry," Don mumbled.

"It's okay, Don. We'll have you cleaned up in no time."

Charlie felt Don's shoulder fall beneath his hand; his brother's eyes were on the ruined chalk and chart of stars peaking out from the corner of his pocket. "Nuh good, Char'," Don whispered ashamedly.

"No, don't say that. I'll take care of your chalk- and tomorrow, you'll earn some more stars, lots more." When Charlie got no response, he gently pulled Don's face towards his own. "It was an accident. An accident is a mistake- something bad happens, but you didn't mean for it to happen. Right now, your body made a mistake- it didn't want it to happen, you didn't want it to happen, but it did anyway. You understand?"

After a few minutes of hesitation, Don answered, "Think suh." Charlie released his face, glad when Don didn't turn away from him. But when their father appeared a few minutes later, Don fell against Charlie and hid his face in his brother's large collection of curls.

"He embarrassed?" Alan mouthed, having seen Don's movement.

"Yes." Charlie mouthed back. He pointed through the door, indicating the bathroom. "Let us get in there." Alan nodded, resigning himself to his bedroom until he heard his sons scuffing across the hall and the sound of a door shutting. Then, he went to work. He wryly thought that taking care of this type of problem was not one he was likely to screw up, as he had prior experience handling it- with both of his sons.

In the bathroom, Charlie cleaned Don from head to toe, taking the time to wash his hair. Beginning to lose a little of the energy that usually abounded within his body, Charlie still added the creature comforts that helped Don relax during bath time: his boats, his bubble bath, and the baby powder afterward that gave him that nice clean smell. As Don was not quite awake, Charlie found himself straining more than ever to get him in and out of the tub, and in getting him dressed. To his surprise, Don let him put on the incontinency briefs with no further sign of embarrassment. Charlie hoped that his explanation had been enough to help quall the shame Don felt in needing them.

"There, see, good as new."

Don was sitting on the toilet lid. He looked at the clean boxers and t-shirt Charlie had put on him. He ran his fingers up and down his arms, feeling the velvety smoothness the baby powder had given his skin. Feeling refreshed, he gave Charlie a shy smile. "Thanks, Charlie."

"No problem, bro." When Don looked away, Charlie dropped to his knees in front of him. "Hey, it really is no problem. Look, if this happens again, you don't have to tell anyone else- not even Dad." Don turned his face back to Charlie, uncertainty marring it. "I mean it," Charlie stated with certainty. "Whenever your body makes a mistake, or if you make a mistake- just let me know. I will always come and take care of you. I'll make it better. I promise."

By the time their father came knocking at the door, Don and Charlie were smiling confidently at each other; Charlie was sure his brother had believed him, and Don was sure his brother was worth believing. Charlie helped Don back to bed, impressed that it looked the same as usual, except there were now cartoon rabbits on the sheets and blankets.

While Don climbed into bed, Charlie praised his father, "Nice job. Almost looks brand new."

"Kinda is," Alan beamed back. "As difficult as it was, and, oy, the pain I am going to feel in the morning, I switched Donny's mattress for yours."

"Didn't think of using your own?"

"Nah- your room is closer."

"Sure. By mere inches."

"At my age, inches translate into feet."

Charlie noticed Don had fallen asleep on a top sheet during their light banter, clutching his favorite toy. "At least Buddy came out unscathed."

"Yeah- lucky rabbit was hiding under the bed." Alan yawned loudly. "I've had more than I can take- I don't think I can keep my eyes open another minute." He went to the bed and took the edge of the top sheet that Don was lying on, folding it over him and laying it on his own side of the bed. Alan slowly dropped onto the doubled-over sheet, lying down on his side, facing Don's back, effectively mummifying his son underneath the sheet. He then wrapped his leg and arm around him, careful of his head, burying his temple against Don's upper back. Halfway waking from the new sensation of warmth around him, Don wriggled underneath, but found he was limited in his ability to move. Alan whispered in his ear, "I'm never going to let you go again, you hear me?" The stirring under Alan's arms stopped as Don fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.

"Do me a favor and get the light, Charlie."

Charlie was concerned when he saw Alan wrap Don so tightly in his arms; previously, it had been his brother clinging to his father. He understood his father's need to make sure Don was safe for the night. However, he was worried about the other methods his father might want to utilize in protecting Don when they were no longer in their home, or even in Don's bedroom. They needed to find a balance between overprotectiveness and carelessness, but, after the events of that day, Charlie no longer knew where the median lay. Hitting the lights, Charlie climbed into bed and pulled the blankets over his family. He was lying on his back for several minutes, with his head resting on his arm, when he heard the soft sound of his father's voice thrown across his brother. "I was thinking earlier, how when we are together, it has never seemed possible for any of us to be harmed."

"I guess that's why we continue to stick together like this."

Charlie was sure he heard his father grinning in the dark. "This has been one hell of a day, Charlie. But when we're together like this, it's like all the bad stuff has gone away."

"Let's hope it stays away tomorrow, when the sun is up."

"I plan to do one thing to keep one _aspect_ of that bad stuff away, Charlie. First chance I get, I'm filing a restraining order."

"Do you really think it will keep that particular _aspect _away?"

"Don't know, but I have to try."

"Tomorrow, I think we need to discuss a few more things about what happened today."

"When I feel up to it, Charlie. As of now, my emotions are all worn out. The only way to rejuvenate them will be to spend some quality time with my two boys- some good time with them."

Charlie did not reply, the events of the day still contained within his mind.

"You okay, Charlie."

"Yeah, Dad. Just tired. Goodnight."

"Night, Charlie." Soon, the sound of snoring filled the room. Charlie slid down in bed, resting his head against the sheet that encased his brother's chest. He was aware that there was one other person he needed to talk to in the morning- Don. But Charlie knew there was little chance that he would obtain the information he wanted to know- the purpose behind Dr. Thompson's visit to his brother.

And her ultimate plan.


	35. How He Found A Piece of Her

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

Author's note: I hope I'm not portraying the characters as stupid. I think they are kind-hearted people who are not used to dealing with a constant barrage of evil in their lives, and are trying to deal with it as the honest, loving people that they are. In due time, however, I know that particular dam would break for even the best people, but I don't think I have built up to that point yet. Thanks for reviewing- it does help me shift focus sometimes, to address things I haven't or explain better the things that I have.

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Colby slammed the car back into reverse, swearing profusely through his teeth. The late morning sun was blaring through his front window, making the strong air conditioning useless in preventing sweat from dripping large droplets down into his eyes and mouth. The bitter taste of salt on his tongue made him thirsty, but he had drunk the last of his bottled water over an hour before, and he was stuck with a slightly nauseous feeling in his stomach. Pounding on the gas, he swore again, as the car refused to move, its back wheels tossing another pile of sand onto the growing heap directly behind his rear bumper.

The previous day, Colby's two fellow team members had decided to divide their stakeout time between themselves, in order to allow him to follow up the lead he was currently trying to locate: the commune Thompson had stayed at while pregnant in 1970. Originally thankful for being given the task by Megan, Colby had left Monday evening, glad that for the next two days he would not have to be sitting in a car watching Don's house. Not that he minded that assignment; he obviously did not want Thompson to further aggravate his friend's precarious condition and was glad to provide the guard duty as a preventive measure. But he was a man who liked to keep moving, and traveling to the Sonoma Valley area was a much-appreciated alternative to the continuous stillness that comprised the stakeouts. In addition, it was wine country, and he had been sure that the trip amidst the exotic-looking vineyards would be quite pleasant. He had even rented a convertible to make the trip, figuring he should take advantage of the fresh air while he could. However, a part of him felt guilty for leaving his two comrades behind to sit in their stifling cars for twelve-hour stakeouts instead of their usual eight-hour ones. On the other hand, he had not obtained permission from Merrick to take the trip, so he had been forced to call off from work and use one of his personal sick days, which alleviated a portion of the guilt; albeit, a small portion.

His current predicament was clearing away all the previous feelings of thankfulness and guilt he'd had towards Megan and David. The car he had rented, and which was the object of his anger, had its rear wheels enmeshed within four inches of sand. And Colby could not figure out why he could not get out. He shifted gears again, trying to rock the car free, but only managed to further upset his stomach with the motion.

Having spent Monday night in San Francisco, Colby had gotten up early Tuesday morning and taken a leisurely drive along Highway 101, heading to his destination. Getting into Sonoma Valley had not been too difficult, though he had almost missed the turnoff. The first two hours driving had been wonderful, the scented air of the wineries intoxicating, especially in comparison to the toxic air of Los Angeles that he was so used to breathing. He had stopped at a small stand at the side of the road to check his directions, looking over the notes he had made about his destination, putting the top up on the convertible as the day had become too hot to do without air conditioning.

According to their resources, the commune-now-organic farm was nestled almost unseen between the outskirt lands of two large wineries. Both of the wineries had been trying for years to buy the owner out, but she had steadfastly refused. The stubborn woman's name was Caleb Whitehall, and by all accounts, she continued to live the simple life espoused by the hippies of the sixties and seventies, though she had caved when it came to avoiding electricity, at some point deciding the modern convenience was an acceptable luxury, and setting herself up with a generator by the early eighties. But she was still archaic in her farming methods, and eclectic in her beliefs, claiming a religion that was part Native American, part Indian mysticism, part political correctness. The woman was definitely unique, as was her organic farm. She mostly grew alfalfa sprouts, potatoes and baby carrots, and refused to sell her produce to anyone that did not accept her beliefs (which was essentially no one, as they were her beliefs and hers alone); but she generously _gave_ the food- without charge- to anyone who would sit and talk to her for an hour. David had stated his professional assessment was that the woman must be 'loony'; Megan had refused to disagree.

After reading his notes, Colby had bought some bottled water at the farm stand, and then had easily made his way through the eastern part of Sonoma Valley. But then he had headed toward the northern base of Sonoma Mountain, where the organic farm was located, and had gotten lost. Somehow, his directions had led him up a steep road that suddenly detoured to nowhere; the flat land around him went endlessly, with a couple deep dips here and there to make it interesting, its only nearby occupants seeming to be grass and an occasional tree. In was in the midst of turning around that his rear tires had gone off the side of the road and gotten stuck, each one spinning relentlessly in a thin but deep strip of dry sand that lay parallel to the weathered blacktop.

Swearing under his breath at a steady pace, Colby threw his door open and stepped out into one of those rare hot days, when the sun seemed to be settled on the earth and the air was fluctuating with the heat. Bending over, he was about to dig around his tires when a voice spoke from behind him, making the agent startle to his feet and reach for his gun.

"Got a shovel if you need one."

Colby released his grip from his gun. He put a hand under the bottom of the white t-shirt he wore and lifted it to his face, wiping away some of the sweat from his brow, momentarily exposing a tanned and muscular chest. Dropping the shirt back to his body, he swiped another hand through his damp hair while he tried to blink salty liquid from his eyes. He realized the shirt had been useless in drying his face; sweat had thoroughly soaked it within the few minutes he had stepped away from the car's air conditioning, and he was aware that the cotton fabric was now clinging wetly against his chest. Feeling a bead of sweat slipping down the back of his thigh, he swore at himself for having worn jeans when shorts would have been a smarter choice.

"Thanks. I would appreciate one."

"Got one back at the house, if you don't mind a little walk. I'm just ending my morning hike and was heading back that way."

"Might as well. Not going anywhere without it."

Colby shut off his car's engine, locked the door and then joined the woman who had approached him. They started through a narrow path, one that he would never have found on his own. He wondered where they could be headed, as he could not see a house anywhere in his line of sight, when the path took a sharp turn upwards and he was able to see a small farmhouse settled into one of the dips in the land, an old barn sitting behind it as well as about an acre of farmed land. It took twenty minutes to get to the house, as the path tended to wind back and forth instead of heading to its destination in a straight line. When they finally reached the house, Colby sat on a rocking chair resting on its front porch. Taking a deep breath, he was amazed at the view that was afforded to him. From his chair, he could see Sonoma Mountain, miles away, its shadow touching the tip of a valley laced with the vineyards of a winery. How he managed to slip past that was beyond his comprehension, as the magnitude of his current view prevented Colby from doing anything else but sit back in the rocking chair awestruck.

A tall glass of tea suddenly appeared on a stick table next to Colby. Grabbing it, he drank it down thirstily, ignoring the fact that it did not taste like any kind of tea he'd ever had before. For a split second, warning bells that signaled the presence of inbred people and chainsaws assailed his mind, but the peacefulness of his surroundings quickly put his generational fears to rest.

Licking a wet tongue across his top lip, Colby sank back into his chair. His eyes tried to follow the path he and the woman had taken, till he finally found his car. It had seemed like they had walked miles, but they had actually walked less than one.

"Thank you. I really needed that." Colby turned to the woman who sat next to him in another rocking chair. The agent guessed her age to be late forties, maybe early fifties. She had long brown hair held in a ponytail, a softly tanned face with just a hint of wrinkles and an endearing smile; and she was very thin, though she was almost as tall as him. Colby was pleased to see the woman had brought an entire pitcher of tea out with her, and he politely asked her for a refill. She put down her own glass and refilled both of their glasses, taking up her drink when she finished and swirling the ice cubes within as she addressed Colby.

"Of course. When you have plenty, you should give plenty, that's what I always say- uh, Mr.?"

Colby dried his hand on his jeans, and held it out to the woman. "Granger, Colby Granger, ma'am. Actually, I should say Special Agent Colby Granger. I'm with the FBI."

The woman's smile slipped from her face as she barely shook his hand. She sat back in her seat and crossed her arms, her hand pressed so firmly around her glass of tea that Colby was afraid it would crack. "Really. And what brings the FBI all the way out here, to the middle of nowhere?"

It was apparent to Colby that she did not trust the Bureau, and that it was possible she did not trust law enforcement or the government in general. He thought it might be the _reason _she lived out in the middle of nowhere, as she herself had referred to her farm.

"I'm looking for an organic farm, and the woman who runs it. Her name's Caleb Whitehall. Any chance you know her, ma'am?" Colby took another gulp of tea, staring at the woman as she contemplated her answer. He was positive he had found the person he was looking for, but he did not want to be too obtrusive, afraid she would clam up and refuse to talk to him.

Working her jaw back and forth, Caleb finally admitted, "Yes. I know Ms. Whitehall- you happen to be looking at her."

"That so!" Colby said innocently. "I am so glad to meet you, ma'am." He offered his hand again. This time, she shook it with more strength, disarmed by his sweet smile and respectful manners. "I hope you don't mind, but I really would like to ask you a few questions, ma'am."

"No, of course not. But you have to understand, I'm not used to having people about, especially those representing the government, people such as yourself. I can not and will not answer any questions concerning my current political views, or any questions concerning my religious beliefs."

Colby grinned. "I understand, ma'am. I would not and could not ask you any questions concerning those things. My interest is in the commune that was run here from," Colby pulled out his notes and slipped a small nib of pencil from his jeans pocket, trying to read the smeared writing on the damp paper, "1968 through 1971. Specifically, I want to ask about one of the people who stayed here for a while- a Melinda Thompson."

Glass shattered on the porch as Caleb dropped her drink. Colby sprang from his chair and bent to his knees, quickly gathering the loose shards into a small pile. Caleb swept into the house and returned with a broom and dust pan, helping the agent clean up the mess. When all was cleared, Colby appraised the woman's appearance and was surprised that her tan seemed to have faded, leaving her with a pale and fragile look.

"You don't look well, ma'am." Colby led her back to a chair, and then offered her his glass of tea. She readily took it, sucking down the remains of the drink, and then panting heavily from having held her breath the whole time the liquid had cascaded down her throat.

Colby waited patiently for the woman to compose herself. When her breathing returned to normal, and she finally looked at him, he sat down in the rocker by her side, and then began his questions again. "I think, ma'am, from your behavior, that you may remember something about Melinda Thompson?"

Carefully putting down Colby's glass, Caleb looked out across her land, staring at something Colby couldn't see. Starting to rock gently, Caleb answered, "Yes, I do. But I'm not sure if it's something you need to know."

"Whatever information you have would be appreciated. There's a strong possibility it could really help a friend of mine, ma'am."

"This friend," Caleb asked, her gaze switched to Colby, "is he an FBI agent like you?"

"Yes, ma'am, he is."

"And would you say he is a good man?"

There was no hesitation in Colby's response to her question; he had learned the answer to it the first time he had worked on a case with Don. "Yes, he is a good man. He's an honest, kind, caring, honorable man."

Closing her eyes, Caleb mulled over all the praise Colby had said about his friend, a strong conviction obvious in every word he said.

Colby rocked in his chair, keeping the same gentle motion as the woman besides him. His instinct was to rush, try to push her into revealing anything she had to say. But their surroundings relaxed him, and he found it easy to let her set the pace, which was slow and languid. Reaching for his glass, Colby ignored the fact that a stranger had just drunk out of it and refilled it with tea, taking small sips while he enjoyed a tranquility that did not often visit his life.

As the sun began to move towards the western half of the sky, Caleb spoke, remorse in her voice, "Did you ever do something that you regret doing? Something that seemed like a good idea at the time, but ended up being a bad one." She opened her eyes and held out her hand for the glass Colby was drinking from; like buddies sharing a canteen, he passed it to her.

"Yes, ma'am," Colby responded quietly. "Sometimes I think half my life has been spent making decisions I later regretted, ones that adversely affected the lives of those around me."

"It sounds like your soul has aged faster than your physical presence, Agent Granger."

"Maybe, ma'am. War tends to do that to a man." Colby allowed a thin covering to fall from his heart, revealing a vulnerability he let few people know was there. "I try not to think of how many missteps I made during a battle, or even when planning an attack; the defenses that should have been in place, the approaching people I should have seen but didn't, the ones I clearly saw as I had to leave them behind, no hope of saving them…many of them friends, good friends." The taste of salt tinged the tip of Colby's tongue; with the afternoon sunbeams bathing the valley with tempered heat, he was able to fool himself into thinking he was sweating again. The afternoon glare made the vineyards of the distant landscape into a surrealistic lattice, and the agent found himself an unwilling witness to his own battle-torn past, unbidden images tearing up the tranquility of the land. As if from a great distance, he heard Caleb refill his glass, then a moment later it was propped in his hand, the frosty glass shocking his hot skin, whipping him back to the present.

One long draw of tea and Colby was able to continue speaking. "Did your mistake have to do with Melinda Thompson, ma'am?"

"Yes. You're too young to remember the Hippy Era, as it is so poetically called."

"My scars are from Iraq, ma'am, not Vietnam."

"Though some people get confused, it really was a different time, a different war." She stopped rocking in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. "We were _all_ idealistic- maybe not the same ideas, but I think every young person had _something_ they believed in, _something_ they wanted to stand for. At least, I thought we did."

"So you started this commune?"

"Yes, as a way to stand for our beliefs that people should live as close as possible with nature- you know, grow our own food, be self-sustaining, and not rely on big corporations. At that time, it was not unusual to have these thoughts. Say something like that today and they want to send you to the loony bin."

Colby winced, remembering what David had said about the woman.

"So, was your commune popular, ma'am?"

"Yes, for its size, it was quite popular. I guess its location was a benefit, too. During the three years we were a commune, must have had hundreds, maybe thousands of people come stay with us."

"Was Melinda an important part of this commune? Our sources indicate she only stayed a few months in 1970, yet you easily remember her despite the large number of people who came here."

"No, Melinda was not an important part of this commune. But it was her presence during that summer that ultimately led to its demise."

"How could she be the reason for a successful commune to close down, ma'am?"

Caleb rose from her chair and took the empty tea pitcher into the house. When she returned, she had another glass and a plate along with a new batch of tea. She filled both their glasses with some of the fresh liquid.

"It's way past the lunch hour, Agent Granger. Would you like some cake?"

"I think it would be alright for you to call me Colby, ma'am."

"Then I think it would be alright for you to call me Caleb, and please, drop the ma'am."

"Agreed." Colby poked a finger at the cake. It was shaped like a loaf of bread, and for the life of him, the agent could not figure out why she called it cake.

Seeing his concern, Caleb explained, "It's wheat cake. Flour, eggs, milk…just your basic ingredients, no wicked potion."

"Just out of curiosity," Colby asked, sitting back in his chair after politely refusing a piece, "what makes this cake _different_ from bread?"

"I added a teaspoon of honey to the mix, to sweeten it up."

Oh, he thought, of course.

Out loud, he restated his earlier question. "What did Melinda do to this place to cause it to shut down?"

"It was nothing that she did to this place. It was something I did to her. Remember when I asked if you had ever done anything you regretted? Well, I did one thing that I truly regret, and it was that one mistake that shut this place down. All the way back in 1970- I tried to live with what I had done, go on with my life, my ideas- but I couldn't face other people. I shut this place down a year later, and have been alone ever since, my only company guilt."

"What could you have done that was so horrible that you've hidden from the world for over thirty years?"

Leaning across to Colby, she gripped his arm, her fingers digging into his flesh.

"I killed that woman's child."


	36. How He Found Some Empathy

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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Colby slowly peeled Caleb's fingers from his arm, sliding her hand between his own and leaning toward her face. "I find it hard to believe a gentle woman like you could have murdered anyone, especially a child."

The older woman bowed her head, repossessed her hand and sat back in her rocker. "Maybe not murder, but I did take a human life, a small, innocent life." She suddenly stood up and walked to the banister at the end of the porch, sitting down on the thick weathered wood and drawing her knees to her chest, her back against the baluster behind her. Caleb stared with haunted eyes to the rear of her house, to her farmed land and the old barn in front of it.

"Right there, in that barn, five lives were changed forever. All because I thought I could do something I had no right to even attempt doing."

The afternoon sun tilted in the sky, encircling Caleb as if in an attempt to further expose her dark secret to the world. Colby couldn't keep his eyes off the woman, her sorrow reaching across the slats of the porch and engulfing him, his heart heavy with empathetic grief.

"As I've said, things were different back then. We didn't think we needed anything that spoke of being modern. The electricity I have now- we didn't have it. Not even running water. Had to pull it up from a well." A thin smile shaped her lips. "It must sound insane to someone who's used to computers and portable stereo players- everything run by some source of energy other than your own body's reserve, but that was what we believed was healthiest for a person- both physically and spiritually."

Colby finally spoke. "In the desert, there were times I had nothing to rely on but my friends and our wits. It was difficult, but for some reason, both were easier to trust than an electronic device that could fail because of a tiny grain of sand. I still believe a good buddy is more sturdy and reliable than any contraption a man can devise."

"Yes, you do understand. We had decided to rely on each other, not modern machines, the tools of the well-known establishment." Caleb continued dreamily. "And it was fine, for what we needed. We had outhouses, far removed from the core of the commune, and, of course, our farm- more of the land was tilled than you see now. People came from all over, camping out in the valley, exchanging ideas- sometimes peacefully, sometimes not. We were one large community of ever-changing citizens, sharing whatever we possessed, whether it was the ability to sing a song, make a stew, or extra clothes for someone to wear- some things legal, some things not."

As the woman spoke, Colby was able to imagine the farm as the commune it once was, flurrying with activities and a cultural group of young people that he had only read about in books and seen in documentaries.

"I'm surprised your neighbors didn't try to run you out."

"They wanted to, but I had help. This wasn't my land, not at first. It belonged to my boyfriend, Alfie; it had been in his family for generations. It was Alfie who was responsible for keeping all of the commune's opposition at bay."

"Pardon me for saying, but the name 'Alfie' doesn't tend to strike fear into many people."

Caleb let a bashful smile slip through. "Alfie was his nickname. It was his idea to plant alfalfa, but he went overboard- we ended up with two acres of the stuff. He used to take me out amongst it and make love to me, slow, sweet love. Then he would braid my hair, poking wildflowers in-between his latticework. He always told me the alfalfa fields were our own private commune."

"No wonder he wanted to defend it," Colby said breathlessly, taken aback by the image of two young people and their love-making amidst the beauty of the valley.

"He didn't get physical with our neighbors, if that is what you're thinking. Alfie's battles were fought in court. His use of the law in defending us always left the opposition off-kilter. They never knew how to respond. It was this skill with legal issues that kept our commune intact, its members exquisitely free to do almost anything as they pleased."

Caleb paused, folding her hands over her lap.

"Then two years into this unbridled wonderland come wealthy Randy Thompson and his wife Melinda. They were such a fine-looking couple, stepping out into the valley as if they were royalty; my parents' generation would have referred to them as 'handsome'. And that term really fit."

Caleb laid quietly against the baluster, as if waiting for the ghosts of the past to reappear. Colby spoke, guiding her to continue. "What interest would a rustic commune have for a spoiled rich kid like Randy?"

"It wasn't unusual for the privileged few to show up at places like our commune. Often they were trying to prove something to the world, to themselves, by trying to live like _common people_. To them, getting dirty and sweaty was a ritual that made them better than those of their own class. They didn't understand that our purpose was not in making ourselves better, but in making the world better. It was this lack of understanding that made so many of them flee back to the comforts they were accustomed to within days of coming here. But the Thompsons were different; at least, Randy was."

"He wasn't looking to better himself?"

"No. Like your friend, he was a good man- it was innately part of him. You could see that characteristic in him by the respectful and kind way he treated people, especially in the love that he bestowed on his young wife. He chose this commune because he and Alfie knew each other. They had been friends since they were little boys."

"I noticed Randy was fifteen years older than Melinda. With that age difference, he must have been a part of the movement for some time before he met his wife."

"Yes, he had taken a role in it years before they came together. He was involved in the Civil Rights Movement from the mid-fifties, a well-known and respected oratory opponent to voter discrimination, long before it became popular with the upper crust. To many people, he was known simply as Thoreau, his middle name, because of how well he was able to intertwine deep philosophical insights into his speeches. In the late sixties and early seventies, many of the voter registration efforts in California were directly initiated and carried out by him, sometimes funded entirely by his father's pharmaceutical company." Caleb sighed deeply. "Randy's experience and age made him the mature one in his marital relationship, so Melinda trusted him. It was because of that trust that she agreed to let me…" Caleb bit her bottom lip.

Colby began to gently interrogate Caleb, not wanting the woman to reconsider her confession. "So, they stayed two months, then left?"

"Originally, their visit was supposed to be longer. Randy loved to be surrounded by young people- he often said their auras filled him with confidence about the future of our country and the world. When Melinda became pregnant, he decided our commune would be the most loving and expressive place to bring a child into the world. So, they came that summer, with Melinda so heavily pregnant she looked like she'd deliver with each step she took."

Still unable to believe Caleb could have killed Thompson's son, he asked, "But something bad happened to the child some time after he was born?"

"What happened was _me_, and my selfish belief that I could, and _should_, do anything I wanted, never thinking about how my actions could harm those around me."

"Please, explain. I want to understand."

"Do you really think you can?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure I understand _anything_ that happened during that era. Most people say you had to be there, and in this circumstance, I believe that may be correct. But, even if I can't understand, I need to _know_, because there really is a chance it can help my friend."

Caleb and Colby did not speak for several minutes. Caleb adjusted her shoulders against the baluster, at last finding physical and emotional positions that were comfortable enough to allow her to continue.

"Many types of people came through this commune, offering their services. Some of these included midwives. These women fascinated me, how they were able to help a new life safely enter the world- like they held the _power _of life within their hands. So, I watched two deliveries." Caleb turned to Colby, repeating firmly, "_I watched two deliveries._" Having made her point, she resumed her previous position, staring at the barn. "When Randy came here, he wasn't prepared. In his own way, he was naïve about this place; despite his political activism, Randy was still living the life of the privileged, that position protecting him from the harder aspects of the Civil Rights Movement- the government harassment and brutality often shown in documentaries. It also prevented him from understanding the physical limits of this commune. And the fact that people tended to come and go as they pleased."

"Randy and Melinda didn't like going without electricity and running water?"

"Neither one of them complained about living like the rest of the community. It was just physically difficult for Melinda, it being her first time with child and coming here so late in the pregnancy. Randy thought she could handle going without creature comforts, but she had never _visited _a place like this before, and _moving_ here was too hard of an adjustment for a woman like her, especially in her condition. Still, Randy and Alfie assured her everything would be fine, that having a baby was so natural that a hospital wasn't required, nor was a doctor. To compensate for her discomfiture, both men tended to her every need. Alfie spent so much time with them, I jealously thought myself banished from their strange triangle, forced to the periphery of my relationship with Alfie; I was sure he wanted to be with Melinda and only her."

"It must have hurt to see him spending so much time with another woman."

"It did and, in a way, it still does; even though I can now reflect that he was only trying to help Randy. But I didn't come to that knowledge until I was much older, and it was too late to change my actions. At the time, I wanted desperately to be allowed into the inner sanctum that surrounded Melinda and her pregnancy, so I could be close to Alfie again."

Colby was sure he knew where Caleb's story was leading, but he allowed her to confirm his suspicions at her own pace. "So Randy decided to have a midwife deliver his son?"

"Yes, _he_ decided. Melinda trusted him so thoroughly, and he was so adamant about staying away from the _establishment's_ medical practitioners for the actual birth…She was only twenty, not too sure of herself. I don't know how she is now, but when I knew her, she was really not much more than a child, her radiant eyes so innocently trusting of everything those around her said- including me."

"You helped convince Melinda to allow a midwife to deliver her baby?"

"No, I convinced her to let _me_ deliver her baby."

"But, with all your inexperience, why would she do that?'

"_Because I lied to Melinda… to Randy… to Alfie and myself_. When Randy came here, he had an experienced midwife ready to help in the delivery. But like so many of the people who partook in this commune, she drifted away one night, without warning. So I lied, said I could perform the services. It was my way of becoming a part of their little circle. They needed a midwife, so why not me? Suddenly, I was a part of everything they did, giving them advice along the way, suggestions that would supposedly help when Melinda finally gave birth."

"How could an intelligent man like Thompson believe you were a capable midwife?"

"We saw midwives younger than me come through this commune; they were mostly from the south, trained by their mothers and grandmothers. And Randy had that inherent faith in young people- it would never have crossed his mind to question my ability. As for Alfie, I guess he believed I could do anything I set my mind to. It really should have been alright, because giving birth _is_ a natural procedure. But when a problem arises, you need at least one person present who knows how to solve it, otherwise, bad things can happen. In this case, they did."

Though the sun continued to beat down on them, Caleb shuddered, cool apparitions from the past touching her soul.

"I was ignorant- of the birthing process, of the experience and training a real midwife has to have in order to partake in a delivery, of all the skills involved. I _watched_ two deliveries, and was suddenly cocky enough to believe that I could take the title, bragging to Melinda and Randy how they would be my first delivery as an _official _midwife, that since he was Alfie's friend the delivery would be more special for it. Melinda did ask about my experience and I lied, told her I _delivered_ two other babies, under observation by an older midwife. I thought the process would be so easy and nothing could go wrong, so my lies seemed like exaggerations at the time. But lies they were."

"The birth didn't go as planned?"

"No, nothing went the way I thought it would. I didn't understand all the different things that can affect a pregnancy and birth. When Randy told me the delivery date their doctor had given them, I thought that it was written in stone- I really was that ignorant. Then late one night, almost two weeks before that date, Randy came running to me, telling me Melinda was in pain, horrible pain. Oh, did I love being in charge, having the responsibility of determining what should be done. Here I was, barely out of my teens, and this man, almost twice my age and respected by so many people, was begging _me_ to tell him what to do. I was relishing the ownership of power, but I was too young to recognize the dangers that came with that particular possession, especially when used in regards to a fragile life."

"What did you do?"

"I sent them to the barn. I was already set up there, in anticipation of my big debut. Randy and Alfie had to carry Melinda; she couldn't walk, she hurt so badly. I thought she was taking the regular pain of contractions and overemphasizing it, as it was her first birth and she was bound to be scared. But I was wrong, terribly wrong; by the time I realized my mistake, she was screaming so loud and hard, I could do nothing but quiver on my knees next to her. All I could see was the blood- on the blankets and my clothes….and my hands, searing my hands."

Caleb lifted her hands to her face, shocked that they were clean of blood because her memories were so vivid. Quietly breaking in, Colby asked, "What happened?"

"Alfie went to find a _real_ midwife- someone who knew what she was doing. When she got there, she practically flung me from the barn. Alfie followed me, both of us waiting, scared, while Melinda continued to scream, our guilt hidden in the dark. I don't know how long we stood there, but it wasn't long. Randy came to us, got Alfie to help him get Melinda down to a car and to a hospital. I tried to follow, stay by Melinda's side. But then she raised her eyes and pleaded with me, "My baby? Where's my little boy?" I fell behind, wondering what had happened myself, not really wanting to know. Moments later, the midwife came out with a bundled blanket. She handed it to me- a physical accusation; she left me holding the evidence of my ignorance, my lies, and my out of control jealousy."

"What was in that bundle?"

A solitary tear looped down Caleb's face. "The baby I'd killed- Randy and Melinda's dead little boy."

Sorrow washed through her words, the kind of mourning that only long years of regret could produce. Colby knew the woman had been a mere child herself when she had behaved so foolishly, as so many young people tended to do; yet she seemed to be so forgiving of her friends' mistake in trusting her, but could not extend that forgiveness to her own youthful sins.

"Caleb, it sounds like you were young and headstrong. You were bound to make bad decisions."

"Lying is not a _bad decision_. Jealousy is not a _bad decision_. Causing the death of another is not a _bad decision_. They are _actions _that are bad, and cause bad things to happen. And I did them all, taking the lives of five people in the process."

Colby adjusted his jaw and then sat back in his rocker. He took a swallow of tea, noticing how his stomach grumbled when the liquid hit it. Looking at the cake that still sat unappetizingly on the table beside him, Colby ignored his stomach's request for sustenance and focused his attention back on Caleb. "I thought only the baby died. Who else lost his life that night?"

"Melinda, of course. The doctor's did what they could for her, but it wasn't enough; she could never conceive again. That baby had been the focal point of her life, and without it, or the hope of another, the innocent life she had led was effectively ended. Randy used his father's resources to hide the fact that she'd ever given birth, but she never forgot. Nor did any of us. I know you've been to war, may have seen hundreds of men killed in the line of duty. But nothing, absolutely nothing, is more horrendous than holding the lifeless body of a baby, especially knowing you were the cause of its death." Caleb paused, as if deciding whether or not to tell Colby something. Making her decision, she continued, "Alfie said Melinda should have been institutionalized, but to keep things quiet, she received professional care at home."

Caleb climbed down from the banister, allowing the scene of her moral crime to fall from view. Sitting down in her rocker, she eagerly watched as the sun slowly dropped in the sky, knowing its eventual disappearance would grant the night permission to cloak her sins once again. Colby sat patiently beside her, knowing her story was nearing its end.

Taking a deep breath, Caleb attempted to finish. "Randy's life was taken, too, of course. He never got over the guilt of having brought Melinda here. She was his wife and he was much older- he felt he should have known better. Then there was Alfie and me. I found it impossible to be around him, the guilt overshadowing everything that had been good in our lives. Eventually, he left this place, and I would have gone, too. Only, I received a visit from a lawyer one day, and signed some papers. The effect was that this farm became mine. By then, the commune had closed down. No one told the people not to come- I think they just knew not to."

"Did rumors get around about what had happened?"

"No, no one ever said a word. The core of the commune was far from the barn and no one seemed to notice our movements in the dark. And none of us ever said anything, including the midwife. I think this place just became…_sad _afterwards. And people could sense it, so they stopped coming, seeking out happier places to rest. For over thirty years I have stayed here alone with this unhappy valley, mourning the lives that I took, including my own."

Probing for more information, Colby asked, "But why all the secrecy? Your actions were from lack of experience, and were not necessarily criminal."

"The push to have minorities register to vote- it wasn't popular with everyone. Neither were free-spirited communes. Randy thought his opponents would use his son's death and his involvement in it as a type of propaganda against the movement, and our way of living. Like coming here, keeping the whole incident hushed up was another decision Randy made that Melinda paid for. According to Alfie, she wanted to talk about her baby- and nothing else. Randy wouldn't let her, trying to avoid the scandal, not because he didn't love her, but because he loved the movement and its people, maybe too much."

"What happened to the baby?"

"I buried him in one of the distant fields behind the barn. Exactly where, I don't know. It was still dark when I found a spot that could easily be dug up, and in the morning, I could not face what I had done, so I made myself not think about where the baby laid."

"Did you ever tell Melinda where the baby was buried?"

"No. The one time she returned to the commune, long after the incident, she was seeking a _live_ child. That's when Randy swept her away and got her more thorough professional help. After she received that care, she never visited this place again. I haven't seen her in over thirty-five years."

"Caleb, would you swear out a statement to all the things you have told me? Maybe go before a grand jury?"

"I don't know if I can do that. What purpose would it serve?"

"It may help that friend of mine. If you don't feel you can do it, can you tell me where to find the other people who witnessed the birth; maybe who the midwife was? Or where to find Alfie? They could testify instead of you."

"Though she was only a few years older than me, the midwife is long dead- killed in a car accident back in '75. Randy, of course, died of cancer two years ago."

"What about Alfie?"

"I know he's still alive, but I don't know how to contact him."

"Then how can you be sure that he hasn't passed away?"

"For two reasons. First, because he continues to pay the property taxes on my farm; considering I have never had any income, I could not have paid them all these years."

"And second?"

"Every year, on my birthday, I receive an envelope in the mail, no return address. There's never a card inside, nothing written- just a sort of loose potpourris made entirely of wildflowers."

Colby stood from his chair, letting it rock back and forth behind him. The sun was lowering in the sky. Feeling he had gathered as much information as he could from the woman, Colby held out his hand to her. "Thank you for everything you have told me. I must emphasize that it would be very helpful if you'd testify to all of these events. It may alleviate your guilt knowing your confession helped another person."

"I've been hidden here with my secret for far too many years. I think it is too late to try to make amends for it."

"In any case, I am going to be back. I'll give you some time to think about it, but I may have to insist that you come with me when I return."

Shaking Colby's hand, she assured him, "I don't think I'll change my mind. And if you feel the need to arrest me, you would find that it had done you no good; I have excellent practice in remaining silent about this entire affair." Stretching up from her chair, Caleb excused herself. She came back moments later with a shovel. "Stick it upright in the sand when you're done. You are not the first person to get stuck in that dry spot, and I might as well save someone the walk to my house."

Colby grinned. "Thanks. I had completely forgotten. Don't think I'd have been too happy to get back to my car and realize I still needed it."

Caleb walked him to the head of the path, asking, "If I did testify, how would it affect Melinda?"

"It might put her behind bars."

"For what?"

"Kidnapping of an officer of the United States government; we believe she illegally confined that good man I told you about, my friend, Special Agent Eppes."

Caleb stopped short, crossing her arms protectively across her chest. Colby could see a change in her posture, as if he had said something that hit a chord, making her remember some forgotten aspect of her story. When the woman did not speak, Colby wished her good-bye, asking that she continue to think about what he'd said, and then he headed down the trail. The agent knew he'd have to call his team members and tell them that he would be delayed in his return; Caleb was obviously holding something back, and he knew he would have to make another visit the next day to see if she was willing to talk about it. He was halfway to his car when he heard Caleb calling from behind him. Turning around, he watched as she jogged down the path to where he stood.

"I need to know something before you leave, Colby."

"What's that?" he asked, leading her back up the path. Maybe she was ready to finish their talk.

"This Agent Eppes, this friend of yours…"

"Yes, what about him?"

"He wouldn't happen to be Maggie and Alan's little boy, would he?"


	37. What You Did For Us

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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Charlie let his brother and father sleep late, slipping out of bed at the crack of dawn, alone. After caring for his personal needs, he padded downstairs and out the front door, making sure he locked it, pulling the knob hard to be positive. Then, he dropped into his father's car and took off to a local twenty-four-hour superstore. Inside, he began searching for things he knew Don needed for his therapy but would not have to be bought from a specialty store. It did not take him long to find stickers the same star-shape and shade of red that Jim had used the previous day, knowing he needed them to help Don see how well he was doing. Charlie bought every last one. Seeing gold stars, he snatched them up, too; they would be used to track Don's weekly progress. He took his time looking over the charts that were hanging from a hook, deciding to buy several of each so that Don could pick out the one he liked best; in addition, he tossed more binders into his cart along with markers, labels, section separators, and plastic hooks that could be stuck to the wall. Remembering how Don had gotten into a strange man's car, Charlie got some glossy paper and a key chain that could hold ten photos.

As he went up and down the aisles, he grabbed magazines, crossword books, word searches, Soduku puzzles, various types of flash cards-including blanks- and an array of children's books that he remembered from childhood. In the toy aisle, every board game that he did not own was added to the growing collection of items in his cart, along with a large assortment of puzzles, ranging in size from 60 to 1,000 pieces.

Not owning the latest video hardware, he had to get an attendant to obtain one from behind a glass case, and then asked for advice about the most mentally challenging games to go with them. He bought a joystick and a steering wheel, the former so Don could manipulate the games with his palm if he could not coordinate using different buttons, the latter so he could practice driving; Charlie assumed the speed in the video games would be akin to the car chases Don had been in while pursuing wayward criminals. He also took several DVDs of cartoons that he recognized from the Saturday mornings of his youth. These items he had to purchase in the electronics section, so he waited patiently while the clerk double-wrapped the merchandise and placed them on the bottom of the cart, reminding him to keep out his receipt for the attendant at the exit door.

Next, he went to the grocery section, choosing a variety of fresh fruits and vegetables. When he got to the frozen treats, he picked out ones that were made from fruit juice, checking each label carefully for sodium levels, knowing Don had to limit his intake because of his diuretics. Thoughtfully, he also picked up a half-gallon of vanilla ice cream, knowing it was his father's favorite. In the meat aisle, he chose several steaks in hopes that a good grinding in the food processor would allow Don to swallow the meat, but also challenge him to chew. Checking the candy aisle, he was pleased to find a large plastic bag of safety suckers, just like the ones Jim used. He looked around until he found a clear acrylic jar, not exactly like the one at the institute, but hopefully similar enough to remind Don of his prior success while there.

Before he was finished, he stopped to pick up more briefs, but then thought about other things that might be necessary to meet Don's physical needs. Charlie noticed pads with liners that could be placed under the sheets on a bed; he lowered several down from the shelf, checking the sides of the boxes to make sure they could be easily cleaned. He then turned into the baby aisle and tossed several containers of baby wipes, diaper rash medicine, and powder into his cart, making sure to include travel sizes. Charlie looked at the diaper bags and determined that if Don was going to leave the house, it would be prudent to have something to carry backup clothing and necessities; however, a bag covered in ducks would be too embarrassing for his brother. So, he took a detour back to office supplies and decided on a large laptop carrying case, its roomy interior perfect for extra clothing and the numerous side pockets useful for holding anything else that was needed. Best of all, no one had to know what the case actually contained.

Charlie paid for his items and headed for the exit, pulling out his receipt for the electronics and handing it to the attendant, who checked his bags and returned the slip of paper, giving Charlie a toothless smile as he waved him through the door.

Once home, Charlie put away the food items, cleaning the fresh produce before tucking them away in the fridge. Then, he set to work on the rest of his purchases. He stuck a hook on the wall of the solarium- for the daily chart- and at the bottom of the stairs- for the weekly chart; he wanted Don to see how well he was doing every time he went up and down the stairs, especially first thing in the morning, when he might not be feeling so good about himself. Next, he set up a card table in a corner of the solarium; he had decided that the room would be the focal point of Don's rehab. Dragging the couch from the garage, he placed it against one wall; he then pushed the television on its cart and his dad's recliner into the room, positioning the T.V. in front of the couch and the recliner next to it. He put the suckers in their jar, and placed them, along with the stars, on the card table. Charlie set out the board games, puzzles and reading material he'd bought, along with the video games, and the practice items from the institute; he'd found them when taking out his packages that morning, left in the car by Alan the previous night. It only took him fifteen minutes to hook the video system up to the television, but almost another twenty to figure out how to hook up the special remote control he'd bought at the institute, as he hadn't thought to ask for instructions. The new DVDs were easily placed next to the television.

Checking the time, Charlie set the personal items he'd bought Don on the dining room table. He expertly filled the laptop case, leaving its center section open for Don's clothing; he didn't want to wake him or Alan, so he put it next to the stairs until he could access his brother's room. He carried the rest of the stuff upstairs, careful to put it discreetly in the hall closet. Afterwards, he put Don's eating tools in the kitchen and clipped to one corner of the table the carousal holding the knife, fork and spoon with attached magnet. He sat down at the dining room table, reorganizing the binders he had developed on Don, reassessing his notes and writing in new information, using his newly acquired labels and dividers to make new sections.

Finally, Charlie went to the hall closet, pulling out a collection of photo albums; carrying them into the garage, he set about scanning fairly recent pictures of himself, his dad, and close friends and family members. Looking through the back of one album, he was glad to find photos from a barbecue that David, Megan, and Colby had attended; in the picture, their arms were around each other and Don, beers cheerily held in raised hands. On his laptop, Charlie cut and reduced the size of his pictures, then printed them out on the glossy paper he had purchased. Carefully, he cut out seven squares the size of the acrylic frames that were hanging from the keychain he had bought, each one with a different person's face on it: Charlie, Alan, David, Megan, Colby, Amita, and Larry. He knew Don was probably still harboring bad feelings toward his team members, but he decided it was about time they start talking about why they were actually the good guys and could be trusted. Besides, if anything else bad happened, Charlie wanted Don to know who he should turn to if it was a choice between his friends and a stranger. Continuing with his work, Charlie filled the remaining two frames with a generic picture of a policeman in full uniform and a small square with the numbers 9-1-1 printed on it. The last frame he fitted with Don's personal information: name, address, and Charlie and Alan's home and cell phone numbers; Charlie made sure to put those in red.

As he swung the completed keychain around a finger, Charlie left the garage and went upstairs to wake his family.

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After giving Don his bath and dressing him, Charlie hooked the new keychain onto the loop of Don's pants, showing Don the picture of their dad and himself, telling Don that anyone else on the keychain would be safe to go with. He discreetly avoided showing him the other pictures, hoping to discuss them at a later time. Charlie did show Don the frame with the family phone numbers on it; he told Don that if they were ever separated and he needed him, he would only need to call one of the numbers. To be sure Don understood, he made him practice dialing the numbers on the upstairs extension with his left index finger, a routine he would make Don do every morning from then on, even after Don said he remembered the numbers, he really did.

When Charlie was satisfied, he took Don downstairs and helped him eat breakfast. Wanting to evoke in Don the feeling of family, Alan insisted they eat together, which made Don happy, though Charlie had to wait to eat until he had finished helping Don swallow his meal. When done, Charlie ran upstairs and slipped the newly bought pads under Don's sheet, not wanting to embarrass him with this new precaution. Taking two sets of clothes from Don's dresser, Charlie trotted back downstairs, putting them in the laptop case. At last, he took Don into the solarium and showed off the things he had bought, excitedly telling Don that he had gotten everything for him. He was repaid with a grateful smile; Charlie considered it a fair return on his money.

The two brothers spent the morning dividing their time between the chew straws, licking popsicles, and gripping exercises with the plastic dough. Charlie was careful not to overtax Don; in-between each exercise, he let Don pick a new cartoon DVD to watch, but he did as instructed by Olivia and asked questions about the characters on the screen and what his brother could remember about having seen them before, trying to help Don retrieve even the tiniest memory. None were captured, but Charlie was not discouraged; Don had been home less than a week and they were just starting his rehabilitation. He reminded himself of their new family motto: things will get better.

Alan stayed with his two sons, watching them with loving eyes, grateful to be in their presence. The first thing he'd done that morning had been to check every room in the house, and then to make sure all the doors and windows were securely locked. He had timed his actions to coincide with Don's bath time. He had not wanted Charlie to worry about him, sure that the 'few more things' his son had wanted to talk about today would include his overprotective behavior of wrapping Don in the sheet. Alan knew it had been an excessive act, but he could not have slept if he had not _felt_ his son was safe throughout the night. And he couldn't help enjoying the closeness to Don that it allowed him to have, especially because he was positive it was temporary, considering Don's habit of distancing himself from those he loved.

While he worked on a Soduku puzzle, sitting across from his sons, Alan tried to figure out how well he was going to handle Don leaving the house; their next appointment was that Thursday, for aqua therapy, and he was not sure how he would react to being at the institute again, specifically in its parking lot. He was also trying to decide which day would be good to apply for a restraining order against Dr. Thompson. Originally, he had planned to get one that day. But he had felt the need to be with Don as he started his home therapy, wanting to be supportive of both him and Charlie. Whenever Don did something Charlie told him to do, Alan would put down his puzzle and cheer him on, giving Charlie an approving nod of his head and a smile. He was certain Charlie knew how proud he was of him with the simple gestures.

When Alan got up to prepare lunch, Charlie took advantage of the alone time with Don to gently ask his brother about Dr. Thompson's visit the previous night. Don sank back against the couch, crossing his arms and lowering his eyes away from him. The only response he'd give Charlie was "Mommy's secrets," refusing to say another word. Charlie finally gave up, not wanting to stress his brother, whose eyes had been drooping towards sleep for nearly a half hour. Considering Don's physical state, Charlie was surprised he had been able to do as much as he had.

After a successful lunch, it was nap time. Alan yawned loudly, expressing a need for some rest, too, as they had been up so late the night before. He ignored Charlie's disbelieving stare as he followed Don to his room, quickly wrapping his eldest in the top sheet, hoping Charlie had not come up, too, but embarrassed when he saw him standing in the bedroom's doorway, his arms crossed disapprovingly against his chest to indicate his father was being overprotective. Guiltily, Alan started to take the sheet off Don, but to Charlie's consternation, Don indicated he wanted to be under the protectiveness of the sheet. Trying not to grin in triumph, Alan rewrapped him and held him close, giving him a kiss on the top of the head. Smiling, Don fell asleep, not voicing aloud his decision that Daddy's arm felt better around him than Mommy's.

With plenty of energy at his disposal, Charlie took advantage of the free time to organize notes for his classes and fax them to Cal Sci, including a message that if the professors taking over his work needed any help, they should contact Larry first, then another one of his friends, then the head of the math department, then finally him- but only if it was an emergency.

Thinking of his friend, Charlie called him, updating Larry on Don's condition and the events of Monday evening, eliciting murmurs of dread from the older gentleman. Charlie quietly complained that he thought his father was on a steep road that would lead him to _seriously_ overprotect Don, which might end up limiting his brother's ability to become self-sufficient, but Charlie was not sure if he was correct in his supposition, especially if he took into consideration all that they had recently been through. He asked Larry to come to the house the next day, if possible (_always possible, Charles, but not always prudent_), so the wiser man could give him his opinion on how to proceed. Charlie received a promise that Larry would indeed like to visit with Don, and would try to offer some advice about Alan, but only after he had properly gathered the necessary empirical data. When they ended their call, Charlie set about making dinner, noting how quickly the day had passed.

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When Charlie woke his family, Alan sat up readily and took the sheet from around Don, heading to the bathroom. However, Don remained still, not responding to Charlie. Sitting on the bed next to his brother, Charlie used his fingers to brush Don's hair, gently asking him what was wrong. With tears in his eyes, Don looked down to his lap. Understanding, Charlie waited for Alan to go downstairs before taking Don into the bathroom and doing a quick clean up job, as the accident had been small. But Charlie noticed Don's mood had changed, his face pulled down in embarrassment and shame despite Charlie's assurances that it was alright.

When they sat down to eat dinner, Alan set Don's plate up first, leaving to get regular plates containing the un-ground food he and Charlie would eat. Charlie sat at Don's right side, facing him, and put Don's glove onto his hand. Though he had used the glove to pick up his spoon for breakfast and lunch, Don refused to do so for dinner; instead, Charlie had to do it for him. Trying to shake off the spoon like he had at the institute, Don grumbled "This for babies."

Charlie frowned. He wondered if the purpose of Dr. Thompson's visit had been to convince Don that he was still a little boy. Seeing his brother's sullen face, Charlie became convinced that something along those lines must have occurred, which would account for why he allowed her to feed him the bottles. Charlie knew he and his father needed to keep reinforcing Don's use of the manipulative tools if they had any hope of him becoming independent and whole again.

With that in mind, he tried to explain, "No, Don. It is not for babies. It is for grown people who have a hard time picking up thin or small things, like spoons and forks."

Ignoring Charlie, Don stared at the ground food in his special plate. Poking it with his left index finger, he complained, "Baby food, too."

Alan had just come from the kitchen, carrying two plates. He stopped halfway through the swinging door when he overheard what Don said. Alan and Charlie exchanged a glance, a quick understanding passing between them. Turning on his heels, Alan went back into the kitchen.

"Don, it's not baby food. It is just a different texture from what some people eat."

"You don't eat it."

Five minutes later, Alan returned, carrying the same plates as before. Purposely, he put Charlie's plate down slowly, immediately adjacent to Don's. Alan sat down to Don's left, sitting close to him with both of their plates touching. His mouth slacked open, Don maneuvered over in his chair, his body in front of Alan's, so he could look at his father's plate from different angles: the same ground food that he was going to eat filled it. Surprised, he turned his attention to Charlie's plate and found it contained the same.

Don sat back in his seat, guiltily telling Alan, "Didn't have to."

Alan told him, "No, I didn't _have_ to; I wanted to. I like good food, Donny, but I _love_ you. Anything that makes things better for you, well, it makes me happy." Alan bent to kiss him on the side of the head three times, telling Don quietly, "_You_ make me happy."

Smiling, Don moved forward on his seat, bobbing up and down in excitement. His hand darted out and he scooped up some carrots, pushing them into his mouth. Charlie quickly got his hand into position, pulling down on Don's throat. About halfway through the carrots, and for the first time that day, Don noticed his brother wasn't eating with him. Aware of his family's selfless act in eating the ground food, Don wanted to be considerate, too. He looked at Charlie's plate and pointed. "What about you?"

Charlie shook his head. "I can wait until you're done."

Since Charlie was going to be eating the same food as him, Don scooped up some of his veggies and carefully moved his hand towards Charlie, offering him the food.

Alan snickered, noting, "Well, Charlie. It looks like your big brother wants to feed you like he used to do when you were little." Hearing his father's words, Don recalled how his mommy had asked if he knew what he had done for Charlie when he was younger, and what he could do for him now. Because of his father, he now knew he had fed Charlie when he was little, and Don wanted to prove he could do it again; taking care of his brother in this way was a small repayment for all that Charlie was doing for him. Don pushed the spoon up against his brother's closed lips. Giving in, Charlie opened his mouth to accept the food.

Satisfied, Don fed himself a bite. He scooped up another and offered it to Charlie, who ate it. With permission from Charlie, Alan leaned over and scraped the contents of Charlie's plate into Don's.

The two brothers got a sort of rhythm going. Don alternated between feeding himself and Charlie, putting a bite of food into his mouth while Charlie massaged his neck, then offering a bite to his brother. Alan thought that his two sons worked well together, though he noticed that Don sometimes pushed the spoon into Charlie's mouth a little too fast in his eagerness to show off how helpful he could be, but Charlie never complained, nor so much as made a disapproving face.

Overwhelmed with happiness and touched by a bit of ego for being able to take care of Charlie, Don got a mischievous glint in his eyes when they neared the end of the meal. As he had been doing, Don put his spoon in front of Charlie when it was his turn for a bite, only to tug it away when Charlie leaned forward to eat it. Putting the contents into his own mouth, Don grinned. However, Charlie had to move fast, pulling down on Don's throat so he wouldn't choke. Still grinning, Don took another scoop of vegetables and offered it to his brother. But Charlie was on to his game. He pretended to try to eat the offered food, but kept his hand near Don's throat, ready to go, not in the least surprised when Don popped the food into his own mouth once again.

Don laughed; he was enjoying his game with Charlie. Exaggerating a long sigh, Charlie said, "I can't believe I keep falling for that fake." He was enjoying their little game, too, glad that Don was no longer sad.

Proud of his trick, and completely oblivious of the fact that Charlie knew what was coming, Don filled the spoon and offered it again. But when he pulled it away from Charlie this time, he was laughing too hard to immediately eat it, so he kept the spoon elevated in front of his mouth until he could. He was so intent on how well he had fooled Charlie that he forgot about his father, who swooped in from his left and expertly cleaned his spoon before Don knew what had happened.

"Mmmmm," Alan said, loudly smacking his lips, a bigger grin on his face than Don had sported.

His eyes wide in surprise, Don held his spoon upright in front of his face, not believing it was empty and that _he_ had been the one who was fooled.

Finally, he stared at Alan, acknowledging his father's impressive swiftness with awe. "You're _sneaky_."

Alan laughed, "Yes, that I am, Donny. And don't you forget it."

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Charlie helped Don finish his therapy for the day. Alan cleaned up the kitchen, and then joined them in the solarium, participating with his usual vocal praises and trying to exert the same exuberance as Charlie. Alan was coming to realize that the more time he spent with his boys, that, yes, the happier and more relaxed he was- but also, the more energy he lacked. While Don played busily with the new remote control, Charlie placed the last of ten stickers on the baseball-covered chart Don had picked out earlier in the day.

"Congratulations, Don," Charlie crowed, limitless enthusiasm pouring out of him, "You earned all of your stars today." He opened up the jar of suckers and helped Don pick one out, just like Jim had done. After unwrapping a red one, Charlie looped it over Don's fingers. He left Don watching a baseball game, sitting next to Alan, while Charlie went to put ten gold stars on the weekly chart at the bottom of the stairs.

Alan tried to work on a crossword puzzle, but found his eyes were too tired for reading. Putting his glasses into his pocket, he laid his head back for the five-minute break Don's therapist had told him he would be allowed. Two minutes into it, Alan heard a series of thumps. He opened his eyes and sat up. Don was eagerly trying to drag a children's book across the floor with his left hand, the right one holding the remains of his sucker. Looking to the card table, Alan noticed half its contents on the floor. He patiently waited while Don half-dragged with his hand, half-shoved with his foot, the book across the floor to where he sat.

Bending over, Alan picked up the book and put it on his lap, waiting for Don to drop down next to him on the couch.

Alan pulled out his glasses, shut the volume off on the T.V., and read to Don, enjoying the comforting feel of his son's body against his left arm as Don peered over his shoulder at the pictures in the book. There was the smell of cherry on Don's breath, which came from the sucker that he still busily licked, his lips and the area surrounding his mouth red with the candy.

Charlie came in and saw the mess that Don had made. His question as to how it happened was answered when he saw his father and brother on the couch, book in hand. He carefully rearranged the items back onto the table and stepped into the garage, wanting to give them some time alone. While they were occupied, he planned to search online for the assistive devices that Don needed, his plans to purchase anything and everything that Don might want or need. Minutes later, he heard the sound of things falling in the solarium, but ignored it, assuming Don had decided he wanted to be read another book. In this assumption, he was correct.

Don sat down next to Alan, waiting for him to pick up the second book. When Alan bent over, his back creaked and he grimaced from the pain. He had to wait a few minutes before he could straighten, and made a face when he finally sat up, trying not to groan because he did not want to scare Don.

Getting comfortable, Alan had just started to read when he felt Don leaning into him. He went silent when three sloppy-sticky kisses were smeared on the side of his face. Peering questioningly at Don over the top rim of his glasses, Alan almost broke down when his goofily smiling son, acutely aware of his father's pain, summed up all his strength to inform him in a deep but childlike voice, "You make _me_……..happy."

Despite the moistness rimming his eyes, Alan resumed reading, wondering if Charlie could determine exactly how long, if untouched, the candy-coated kisses would last on his cheek.


	38. What She Did Not Tell

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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Colby inwardly groaned.

"Yes, thank you, I would like to have some of that cake now."

The agent was sitting in the sparse kitchen of Caleb's farm house. He had led her back up the path to the house, trying to guide her to open up about another connection between Don Eppes and Melinda Thompson, one that she had not spoken of during their first conversation, all the while he was guiltily hoping it was the final bit of information that she would have to offer.

Because the agent was hungry, extremely hungry.

And though he had been used to eating food in the armed forces that seemed comprised of the sand that surrounded him, since coming home he had promised himself that never again would he let food that dry and tasteless pass his lips.

Unless absolutely necessary.

Unfortunately, since he had not eaten anything since that morning, and even that had been very little, he found himself at 'necessary'.

Because the information that Caleb had to offer was more important than the steak dinner he had hoped to grab.

And besides, it _was_ cake.

Wasn't it?

Colby found the atmosphere in the kitchen to be much homier than the air that had surrounded them outside on the front porch. If he hadn't known any better, he would have said that Caleb was correct in describing the valley as sad, because he had felt mournful spirits all around them as they sat in the sun. Oddly, as it had fallen into night, the ghosts had disappeared and he felt like he was now sitting in a kitchen that was no different from any other he had ever been in. Caleb had said the night hid their sins, and maybe she was right about that, too.

Or he was just feeling that way because he sensed an ease of tension in the woman who sat across from him.

"Here you go," Caleb said politely. She placed a third of the loaf on Colby's plate. He thanked her and quickly dug in, wanting to be done with it so that he could concentrate on what she had to say. He was surprised to find the cake was _moist _and hid a hint of sweetness in the soft taste of wheat that could be detected in every mouthful. When he finished, he further surprised himself when he asked for another piece, grateful when she gave him a second third of the loaf, refilling his glass of tea.

Colby munched on the cake slowly. Swallowing, he asked, "How did you know Don's parents are Margaret and Alan Eppes?"

He watched Caleb stand at the sink with her hands pressing into the counter. She raised her head and looked out the window, staring at the moon that was just beginning to appear in a corner of the sky, the darkness reminding her of Melinda's black eyes.

"I told you she came back here- months after the incident. And she was looking for a live baby, her little boy." Caleb turned around and went to sit with Colby at the Formica table in the center of her kitchen. Clasping her hands, she explained, "She found him. Or at least she thought she did."

Colby pushed his plate away and sat back in his chair. He stared at the woman across from him in disbelief. "You're not going to tell me that baby was Don Eppes?"

Looking away, she replied, "It seems crazy, I know. But it could have been anybody's baby that she found here, it just so happened that it was Maggie and Alan's."

Folding his arms and leaning on them, pushing into what Caleb was telling him, Colby told her, "You have to tell me everything that happened between the Eppes and Melinda. I need to know."

"I know, Colby. It's just I never thought it would come up. Or that the incident could have an effect on the Eppes thirty-five years later, especially because they never knew about it."

"Never knew about what?"

"Never knew that Melinda had tried to kidnap their newborn son."

Colby was startled by the revelation. The woman had tried to kidnap Don thirty-five years ago? If Caleb was telling him the truth about the attempt, then she was correct in saying that Alan Eppes had not known about it; otherwise, the moment Melinda's name came up, he would have remembered the incident and associated the two.

"How could they not know?"

Pushing strands of hair from her face, Caleb shook her head and continued, "Because we didn't tell them." She raised her eyes to Colby, meeting his gaze. "Yes, it's another secret I've kept, but it is _not _something that I feel _bad_ about doing. It was the best thing we could do for Melinda, and the Eppes really didn't need to know."

"The Eppes stayed at this commune?" Colby tried to picture Alan Eppes in a tye-died shirt and ragged jeans, smoking marijuana, but he failed to conjure up the image.

Caleb gave a little laugh, shaking her head again. "Maggie? Lord, no. She was so fussy about her baby it took an hour of her husband's coaxing before she would allow me to watch him. No, _Alan_ would have loved to stay here- but not Maggie. And since they were practically joined at the hip, Alan had to settle for a visit."

Thinking back to a case they had earlier in the year, Colby tried to remember what details had been in Alan Eppes' file concerning anti-establishment activities during the early seventies. Don had left his dad's file on his desk, and the younger agent couldn't help but take a peek to see what information the Bureau could possibly have on the gentle and kind elder Eppes. He had been disappointed to read about peace demonstrations outside federal buildings and voter registration tables set up in Crenshaw. None of it was of any interest to Colby.

Not until now.

Colby realized that Randy Thompson had also been involved in voter registration- hell, he thought, according to Caleb he was like the movement's unsung spokesman.

Speaking his thoughts aloud, he asked, "The voter registration movement- is that why Alan and Maggie came here?"

"Very good, Colby," Caleb nodded her approval. "Yes, they came to see the famous Thoreau, who had disappeared from the movement's eye during that summer and who was rumored to have settled at this commune. Of course, the rumors were true- but by the time the Eppes came to visit, Randy had already moved on, taking Melinda with him." Caleb's eyes shadowed briefly. "They were both disappointed that Randy was not here. Despite that, Alan wanted to stay, interview people, see if he could gather more supporters for a peace protest they were going to stage in L.A. Maggie wanted to go home immediately; she wasn't interested in the nefarious activities that were occurring in the commune, and she was afraid that if they stayed someone might hurt her baby. I guess Maggie's motherly instincts were warning her to leave."

Caleb murmured under her breath. "They should have listened to those instincts."

Standing, Caleb took Colby's dishes to the sink and set up some water. Grabbing an old rag, she wiped the kitchen table and then went back to the sink to wring it out, leaving it on the counter when she finished. She returned to the table and sat down, looking wrung out herself as she explained the rest of her story.

"It was one day, only one day that the Eppes came and stayed. Fate, I guess, that Melinda also returned to retrieve her baby on that same day, and during the four hours that the Eppes were away from their son. As I said, it took an hour for Alan to convince Maggie to leave her baby with me- here in the house, of course, while they went down to the valley, meeting with the residents of the commune. Though, Maggie wasn't too thrilled about the house, either. She only left her baby with me a little over four hours before she came back for him. From one of their conversations I overheard when they first got here, it sounded like Alan had convinced Maggie to come to the commune with the promise that there was a house she could stay at. Only, Maggie wasn't too happy when she found it devoid of electricity and water."

Caleb allowed herself a moment to think. "Really, she wasn't too different from Melinda. Neither of them was happy about this commune. But, Maggie was more sure of herself, and wouldn't let _her_ husband talk her into doing anything that she really did not want to do. That's why they left that night. By the time Melinda had developed a will of her own, it was too late. Her baby was already gone, and so were the chances of her having another."

"So, Melinda returned and found the Eppes' baby?" Colby asked, intrigued by the coincidences active in the lives of the Thompsons and Eppes.

"Yes, she did. And if I had been Melinda, I would have thought that baby mine, too- would have desperately _wanted_ it be mine." Her eyes glowing, Caleb eagerly told Colby, "He was just what Melinda would have expected her baby to look like. Black hair and dark eyes, just like hers, little curls framing his face… and that smile, so intriguing. One rarely sees a baby that looks so appealing. Melinda had come straight to the house, to confront me about her son. She walks into my bedroom, and what does she see?" Not expecting a response from Colby, she answered her own question. "She sees me, the last person who had possession of her son, with a baby whose features matched her own. Once her eyes caught site of him, in her mind, I was no longer in the room. She walked right past me to the bed, and lay down next to him. He smiled at her and wrapped his little hand around her finger. You can understand why she thought he was her own?"

"Yes," Colby agreed, "I guess I can. At least, when she first saw him, I understand why she thought the baby was hers, especially if she thought her child was alive. But, did you explain to her that her baby had died, and that the one she was holding was someone else's?"

"I tried to, but she wouldn't listen to me when I said the baby was Don Adam Eppes, and his parents would be returning shortly. She had glared at me, and told me, "His name might be Don Adam- but his last name is Thompson, not Eppes." That's when Randy and Alfie came in. They had been looking for her. She'd taken off from Alta Sierra, and they assumed she would come to the commune, looking for her child, one she had yet to stop talking about. She was leaving out my bedroom door, attempting to take the Eppes' baby, when they walked in and took him from her." Caleb folded her shoulders inwards and wrapped her arms around her body. "I thought Melinda had screamed the night, that night…she gave birth. But it didn't compare to the screaming and howling that came out of her when Randy took that baby from her. It's the last memory I have of her- arms stretched out and heart-wrenching screaming, begging for her little boy, while Randy and Alfie dragged her from the room."

Caleb and Colby sat quietly as they contemplated what the effects would be on a woman who has her child taken from her twice. Obviously, Colby thought, the effects had been mentally detrimental. Otherwise, Melinda would not have kidnapped Don again, so many years later.

Gently breaking the silence, Colby quietly asked, "So, did she _ever_ understand that her child had died?"

"According to Alfie, she came to accept it. I don't know what could have happened to make her think that Don Eppes was her son again. Maybe it was the shock of Randy dying; really, I don't know. I truly believed it ended that night. Melinda was long gone by the time Alan and Maggie returned, and I did not feel the need to tell them what Melinda had done- Randy had assured me she would not be going anywhere until the doctors said she was completely healed. I thought telling the Eppes would make Maggie more paranoid about her son's safety, and if they pressed charges, it would only hurt Melinda's chances of getting better. I couldn't bring myself to hurt her again."

Colby thought about this new chapter in Melinda's story. If Caleb would testify in court, or swear out a statement, they would have a motive for Melinda kidnapping Don, something they did not have before; and they would have the prior attempt, which would further their case against her. But if Caleb refused to talk, it would do them no good, because, besides Melinda, the other principles involved were all dead.

Except for Alfie.

Colby thought they might be able to track Caleb's old boyfriend down if they searched the public records and found out who had been paying the taxes on her farm for the past three decades. It wasn't much, but if Caleb refused to talk, he was their next best choice.

It would also help if they could find the baby's grave. Colby couldn't recall if the bones of a baby would last that long in the ground. That was a secondary problem, though, as Caleb's land was acres in size and finding the gravesite would be cumbersome, near impossible. No, he would have to go through with his threat and visit Caleb again, the next time with a subpoena in hand.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Caleb interrupted Colby's inner conversation.

"I was wondering if you ever found that gravesite."

Sitting straight, defensively, Caleb asked, "Why is that important?"

"If we could find the remains of the child and match its DNA to Melinda, she might leave my friend alone. She continues to harass him."

Caleb sighed loudly. "Then why don't you give a DNA test to Don Eppes and compare it to Melinda?"

They stared at each other, the answer hanging in the air between them.

It was Colby's turn to sigh, but he did not say a word. So, Caleb supplied the answer, "You've seen it, too, haven't you? That obsessive look in Melinda's eyes. There is no way a DNA test is going to convince her that Don Eppes is not her little boy. She'll call you a liar, just like she called me one, when I tried to explain to her that her baby was dead, the first time she tried to take him."

"So, you don't know where the grave is?"

"I can not show you where that baby is buried. It has been too many years."

"Caleb, is there anything else you can tell me?"

"No, nothing that I can."

Caleb walked him back to the path. This time, she sent him with the shovel _and _a flashlight, telling him to leave them both at the side of the road. She sat on her front porch rocking, refusing to move from her spot until she saw Colby's headlights turn on and then drive away up and over the hill. When she was certain he was not returning, she went into her house and came back outside with another flashlight.

She walked down her front stairs and walked around to the side of her porch, moved aside a loose slat of wood and climbed underneath, slowly crawling along the dirt that loosely lay there, making a floor for the crawlspace that was formed by her stairs, the porch, and the lower front of her house. She sat down in the far corner, brushing away the dirt that had drifted over the five small stones that acted as markers for Melinda's baby's grave.

Caleb sat praying for peace to come to the living people for whom three of the markers represented: herself, Alfie, and Melinda, especially Melinda.

She was sorry she had to lie to Colby about knowing where the grave was; she had tried to be an honest person ever since that horrible night. This time, though, she believed the lie would prevent, not be the cause of, further pain to Melinda. In a sense, she hadn't lied when she said she could not tell him where the grave was, not because she did not know, but because she had been keeping the secret it contained to herself, for thirty-five years, and could not reveal it now. She knew doing so would serve no purpose- at least, not anymore.

Only some of the things she had said about the grave had been lies; others had not. When Melinda had been taken away the night of her delivery, Caleb _had_ dug a makeshift grave out in the fields, in the first place she could. But, despite what she told Colby about not wanting to find it, the next day Caleb had gone looking for it, afraid Melinda would want a proper burial for her child and she would not have a body to bury. It had taken the entire day, but Caleb had located overturned dirt in one of the alfalfa fields, and she had pulled the blankets and their contents out into the light of the lowering sun. Then, she had waited till dark, and taken the bundle to the house, burying it under the front porch, hoping the thick blankets and protection from the elements would allow some part of the baby's body to survive, so Melinda could have _something _to bury.

Caleb had never been able to go into the alfalfa fields again without thinking about the baby. This was what had driven a wedge between her and Alfie, more so than anything that had occurred that ominous night. She had not been able to let it go and it had tainted everything good in her life, exemplified by her inability to be with him in the one place that had been theirs and theirs alone.

The night Melinda showed up looking for her son, Caleb was truthful when she told Colby that she had tried to tell Melinda that her baby had died. She had kept from Colby the fact that she had tried to show Melinda the gravesite, but the crazed woman had been deaf to everything she said. When Randy and Alfie had taken Melinda away, Caleb had stood there watching the woman screaming for her son, and she had known that it was too late for Melinda to accept and properly mourn the loss of her child.

That was when Caleb had decided to keep the grave's location and its contents secret. She had kept it to herself for so long that it was easy to lie to Colby and tell him that she could not tell him where it was.

But there had been something else she had kept from Colby, and from everybody else, other than the grave's location.

Caleb had kept from him the truth about the grave's contents.

From the time Melinda had delivered, till the time she had returned to the commune, Caleb remembered how the young woman had hysterically asked about her little boy.

Melinda was so obsessed about finding her little boy, that Caleb came to realize that showing the grave and its contents to her would not have helped her accept her child's death. It would have simply convinced Melinda that her baby was still alive, and would have probably sent her further over the edge, never to return.

Because what Caleb knew was something no one else did.

Something she had found out when she had dared to look at the body of the baby, one time after the midwife had shoved the blood-soaked blankets into her arms, Caleb hoping to prove to herself that she had not caused the death of Melinda's son, that hope quickly fading when she saw the dead baby for herself.

Caleb had seen the baby.

After Melinda tried to kidnap the Eppes' baby boy, Caleb knew she could never show the grave's contents to Melinda, that the remains of the body inside it could not have convinced Melinda years ago, nor could they convince her now, that her baby was, indeed, dead. So, Caleb saw no point in letting Colby and the FBI dig up the grave, allowing them to disturb what little peace she had left in her life, and maybe further destroying what was left of Melinda's sanity.

Caleb had seen the baby.

And only she knew…

that the baby Melinda had delivered…

who had died during childbirth…

whose body she had accepted in a mound of blankets...

and she had buried under the front porch of her house…

That the body of the baby in the gravesite before her…

Was the body of a baby _girl_.


	39. What She Wondered

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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As Colby drove back to his hotel late Tuesday night, he felt the impalpable mood of Caleb's farm dipping into the corners of his senses; every time Colby saw headlights flashing in his rearview mirror, or the pulsing glare of a neon sign slide across the hood of his car, the intangible world of spirits seemed to be illuminated in those brief seconds, enabling him to glimpse the anguished souls of the five people who had been such major players in all that transpired the night Melinda Thompson lost her baby. Colby could not shake from his personage the agonizing sorrow that had infiltrated the once-joyful commune, and had taken a hold of the now- elderly woman who had long ago lost her hopes and aspirations for a bright and happy future, all because she was unable to untangle herself from the mistakes of her youth.

When Colby walked into his hotel room, he left all the lights on save the one in the bathroom, allowing the darkness to keep at bay the remnant specters of Caleb's farm. After taking a shower, he placed a call to room service and ordered the steak he had previously longed for; then he laid down on his bed and twisted a pillow under his arm, lying on his right side, flipping open his cell to call Megan. He was grateful when she answered on the first ring.

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Megan was lying in bed trying to sleep, but though her body was worn out, rest kept eluding her. She was distinctly aware of what was keeping her awake, and it was peristantly bothering her.

Earlier in the day, David had called her while she was watching the Eppes' home, and had informed her of the abduction attempt made upon Don at the institute Monday night. It had scared her, to a degree that she had never been frightened before. Upon hearing the news, she had broken two nails because her fingertips had been tearing into her steering wheel at magnitude force. The moment David had arrived to relieve Megan of her guard duty, she had gone to Nadine Hodges and explained to her what happened. The Assistant U.S.DA had immediately filed papers claiming jurisdiction over Perceival Jackson, taking him into federal custody, charging him with the same crime that she had Melinda Thompson less than two weeks before: kidnapping of a federal officer of the government of the United States.

When Jackson had been brought to the federal building late in the day, he had been accompanied by an expensive attorney. The sight of another predator being protected with an unlimited bank account had set Megan over the edge; she had been watching his interview through a one-way mirror, and when Jackson stated simply, as if it were the truest thing in the world, that Don had expressed an obvious sexual interest in him, Megan had gotten up from her seat, strode directly into the room, and slapped the man across the face, leaving behind an impressive imprint of her hand. Jackson had reacted by groaning, the force of the slap jolting him back against his seat, aggravating the broken ribs Olivia had gifted him with and that had been taped the previous night, right before he had been carted off to jail.

But somehow, through the pain, he was able to get enough of a grip on himself to coolly tell Megan 'don't get worked up over that cunt, he's not worth it', setting her off again. She had balled up her fist, wanting to put a different kind of red mark on his other cheek; two of her fellow agents had to restrain her. As they dragged Megan from the room, she followed up her physical assault with a verbal one, calling Jackson every derogatory name that had ever been thrust upon her while she was working her way through the ranks of the male-dominated FBI. Both agents had held onto Megan for almost thirty minutes, refusing to release her until her face was no longer red with fury and her breathing returned to normal.

Of course, Merrick had later informed her that Jackson's lawyer was filing a complaint, and was debating about filing assault charges. Her boss had also stated that she and David (along with Colby, when he decided he was no longer _sick) _would be needed the next few days to help process tips in a serial murder case that had come their way. Megan got the impression that Merrick thought she and her colleagues were becoming too emotionally involved in Don's case, and it was his way of extricating them from further entanglement.

No specific part of that incident or the events leading up to it really bothered Megan, at least not enough to keep her awake. From experience, Megan knew she would be reprimanded for her actions and required to attend a set number of sessions with the Bureau shrink; plus, she, David, and Colby had already known that it would be impossible to continue their guard duty of the Eppes' home, not if they planned to effectively continue investigating the case and keep up with their other work. Though he had been supportive the last four days, Merrick's decision to occupy their time with other work was one that he should have made once the charges against Thompson had been dropped and the case unofficially closed, so it was not a command that was unexpected. Still, they would regret not being able to protect Don.

As for the actual assault on Jackson, Megan had decided long before she went to bed that it had been well worth the trouble to slam her palm across that creep's face, and he had _so _deserved it; her only true regret was in not being quick enough to get her fist in on the action. Smiling as she laid thinking in bed, Megan hoped she and Jackson would meet some dark night, just them two, alone. She knew it would not be hard to convince the man she had a _physical _interest in him, a message she would love to get across one punch and kick at a time.

But not even the pleasant thought of providing further pain to Jackson had been keeping Megan awake, her inability to sleep allowing her to answer Colby's call the second it came through. _Self-doubt_ was keeping Megan awake- not about her actions that day, but about the feelings that had led her to them, because she was sure that they were feelings that were directly tied to Don Eppes in a way that they had never been before.

As she tossed in her bed, she tried some positive self-talk. Sure, hitting Jackson was not professional, but the behavior was no different than what Colby or David would have probably done; as a matter of fact, she had probably caused _less_ damage to the jerk than what would have been provided by Don's two other friends, if they had been the ones observing the interrogation. And her fear for Don's safety was no different than what her colleagues were feeling; they were working just as tirelessly as she was in trying to obtain evidence against Thompson and in keeping her away from Don. No, nothing had changed in her behavior toward Don, or in her emotions towards him. Everything she felt about Don had always been in her before: concern, protectiveness, friendship, professional respect, and yes, a kind of love.

But...There was that _horrible_ word. Megan had always been leery of that word, how the three letters that comprised it could join together and have the power to turn a person's world on its head. It was _that_ word which helped contribute to her inability to sleep for most of the evening. Because she knew her feelings for Don were the same as they were before, that her behavior had not changed towards him, that she was acting the same way in regards Don as his other friends and family members were...

_But, but, but_... Something _wasn't _the same. And she was having a hard time pinpointing exactly what had changed, and when it had occurred. When thinking about the whole situation, Megan realized it had most likely first occurred when she had sat with Don in the ambulance outside Thompson's house in Alta Sierra. She had wanted to be the one to comfort Don, but knew Thompson was the one he wanted. Somehow, unbeknownst to Megan, a small seed of ownership had been planted, one that had come full bloom when Jackson had tried to take Don away. For some reason, Megan felt that the man had tried to take Don from _her_, and it was this jealousy that had propelled her to strike the man, in front of his lawyer of all people. Right before Colby called her, Megan had finally figured out that she had behaved like a possessive girlfriend, and that it had not only been unprofessional, it was totally bewildering, because she and Don had never dated, nor so much as shared one of _those moments _people meant for each other were supposed to have.

Megan was stumped. How could it have happened-especially now, when Don was so defenseless? Some part of her knew that it was exactly Don's defenselessness that was responsible for her expanded feelings for him. Her former boss had never showed weakness around his friends and colleagues before, and he had always kept up an invisible brick wall that prevented others from seeing he might actually be human. When they had found him, Don had exuded a vulnerability that no one had seen before, and Megan found, to her dismay, that it made her want to put her arms around him and hold tight, make everything be alright for him. Knowing her friend's mental and physical condition, Megan was ashamed of herself, for desiring Don now that he was in a weakened state when she hadn't been interested when he was strong; well, not that she had been aware, or would have admitted. I must have a weakness for vulnerable men and the need to mother them, she thought disdainfully as she answered her ringing phone, wincing inwardly at the poor choice of words, the thoughts brought on by the remembrance of her recent but short-lived affair with a meek college professor.

Colby spent a little more than an hour telling Megan everything he had learned about Caleb Whitehall and what had happened the night Melinda Thompson delivered her baby, as well as the night Melinda first tried to kidnap Don, thirty-five years before she had been successful in the second attempt. Megan sat up in bed, threw on a light and crossed to a desk set in the corner of the room.

Stifling a yawn, she informed Colby, "I'll go to Nadine with this information tomorrow. She should be able to get a subpoena propelling Whitehall to swear out a statement. If she gets one, I'll have someone bring it up to you at Sonoma."

"I had planned on returning to L.A. early tomorrow morning," Colby replied.

"Don't know why you would plan that. Obviously, if that farm is so difficult to find, you'll need to be the one to deliver the subpoena. No point in sending someone else, and have them risk getting lost."

"Well, actually," Colby hemmed and hawed, "I kinda promised Caleb that I would give her a couple days to think about coming forward on her own."

Megan's tone was stern. "You had no right to promise that, Colby. We can't wait until this woman _decides_ to come forward. It's already been thirty-five years- are we supposed to wait thirty-five more?"

"No," Colby tried to explain, "It's just, I mean, you had to be there. This woman has been punishing herself for Thompson's baby dying for over three decades, but I really don't believe she should be shouldering the blame. _Randy Thompson_ made the decision to take his wife to that commune and use a young, inexperienced midwife; if anyone should be to blame, it's him."

"The man died of cancer- if he _was_ the one responsible, I would think his slow, painful death was punishment enough." Five seconds later, she added, "And being married to Dr. Thompson all those years."

"Fine, so we feel sorry for Randy, too. But Caleb is the one who has lived with the ghost of that baby ever since it died, and she's the one who has been in self-exile. I think if Caleb could be allowed to come forward on her own, and see the good she is capable of doing by talking about her past...it might allow her to finally forgive herself. Maybe, just maybe, give her a chance to live again, free from that burden of guilt."

Megan was quiet a few minutes as she thought about Caleb Whitehall. She was aware of how tough Colby's exterior shell was, but also of how tender his heart was underneath it. It was obvious from the way he talked about Whitehall that he felt sympathy for her and felt a need to help her out. On the other hand, Megan needed to get the woman to come in to the USDA's office and make a statement. Though she was concerned that it would make Colby feel bad to go back on his word, as honor was so important to him, she knew her _main_ concern had to be another friend's mental and physical well-being. Megan scribbled on a loose piece of paper in front of her, trying to find a way to get a voluntary statement from Whitehall as quickly as possible.

Colby continued to make his case. "Megan, the whole atmosphere of that farm is eerie- kinda otherworldly. You know, I usually conduct my interviews fast and hard. But Caleb was so sad and fragile, I had to let her go at her own pace, tell me what she wanted to. It just didn't seem right to try and force her to answer my questions, like I was intruding on something that was sacred."

Megan smiled. "I did notice you didn't bother to get Alfie's real name."

"Oh, uh, I figured we would get it from the farm's property tax history. Alfie's been paying the taxes on it all these years. Besides, if Caleb had wanted to tell me his name, she would have. Her demeanor made it clear that the only information I was going to obtain was what she wanted me to know."

Tapping her pen against the paper on her desk, Megan asked, "Then can you be sure that she told you everything? I really find it hard to believe she never found that baby's gravesite. She might have waited a couple days, but she had to know its location would be important to the Thompsons."

Colby turned onto his back, adjusting his position in bed. "I was thinking the same thing. But she insists she doesn't know."

"But why won't she tell us where it's at? I mean, it could help us convince Thompson that Don isn't her son and get her some help- which isn't as good as jail, but at the very least, she would leave him alone." Megan was starting to feel frustrated about the whole situation. They had a witness who told them a motive for Thompson kidnapping Don, but who then refused to swear out a statement that would allow them to arrest Thompson. And on top of that, she probably knew the location of a body's remains that could used to confront Thompson about her mistaken belief that Don was her son. But she denied she knew its location. Megan was beginning to care less and less if Whitehall _wanted_ to give an official statement or not- the woman sounded as far off the deep end as Thompson, and would probably have to be forced into testifying.

Colby was just as perplexed. "I know that Caleb thinks she owes Thompson," he said, thinking out loud, "refusing to testify is obviously another way of paying her back. As for the grave, I can't figure out why she wouldn't tell us its location."

He chewed on his bottom lip several minutes, lost in thought, before he continued, "I wonder if it's possible that Caleb doesn't want to interfere with Thompson's current delusion about Don. Caleb feels responsible for Thompson losing her son, and she might want Thompson to have a chance at having that son, even if he really isn't hers. The absence of the gravesite allows Thompson to revel in her delusion, because there might be no other way to convince her that the baby is really dead; by keeping its location secret, Caleb may believe she is paying back her debt to Melinda."

"But that doesn't make sense. When Thompson tried to kidnap Don that first time, Caleb tried to stop her. Why would she be supportive of her taking Don now?" Megan wondered if she should have interviewed the woman, given her a psychological once-over.

"Maybe she doesn't think it's a big deal that Thompson kidnapped him. After all, we're no longer talking about her taking a baby but rather a grown man, someone who would supposedly not be defenseless against Thompson. And we really don't know how hard she tried to stop Thompson; in her version of the story, she tried to talk Melinda out of taking the baby, but it was Randy and Alfie who had to take him out of her arms. If they hadn't arrived, who knows? Maybe Caleb would have let Melinda have the baby."

"You know," Megan began scribbling again, an idea forming in her head, "that is possible. How much of the kidnapping did you explain to Whitehall?"

"None, actually. I didn't think it pertinent at the time." Colby was developing the same idea as Megan. "Do you think I should tell her some of the details?"

"No, I think you should tell her _all _of them. Look, while Nadine is busy getting that subpoena tomorrow, I'll fax you Don's evaluations from Dr. Wang. Take them to Whitehall. You may be right that she thinks it's alright for Thompson to think Don is her son; that it's no big deal. Well, let her look at those evaluations and see that it _is _a big deal. Let her understand what Thompson did to him. And when she's done reading those reports, try to convince her that she also owes something to Alan and Margaret Eppes, for not letting them know about the first kidnapping attempt. If the authorities had gotten involved three decades ago, Thompson would probably have been institutionalized and received the help she needed, not just home care, preventing all of this from happening."

"I'll only bring up owing the Eppes if it's necessary in convincing her to come in," Colby stated firmly, "I don't want to make her feel responsible for Thompson's current actions. There is no way she could have known that Don would be kidnapped and tortured by that crazy woman thirty-five years after that first attempt."

"That time difference between the two kidnappings brings us to another dilemma: what finally convinced Thompson that Don wasn't her son and that her baby had, indeed, died? And what made her change her mind again, all these years later? Whitehall's statement that Thompson accepted the baby's death has to be true, because, until a couple months ago, Thompson never tried to contact the Eppes or Don. So, if no one said where the baby was buried, what could possibly have convinced her of its death?"

Megan put down her pen, stuck the phone under her chin and stretched both her arms. She was exhausted, but could not allow herself to sleep; she needed to delve into all the aspects of Caleb Whitehall's story while it was fresh in her mind. They needed to understand how Thompson thought, what her motivation was, if they were ever going to put her away behind bars.

Not as tired as Megan, but becoming sleepy, Colby pushed his head into his pillows, trying to get comfortable. "The psychologists Randy Thompson had his wife seeing- could they have convinced her of the baby's death?"

"No, Colby, I don't think so. From the story you told me, it sounds like Thompson was obsessive in her belief that the baby lived. I think the only way she could have been swayed from that belief would have been solid proof."

"What if Randy paid for that proof- maybe bought a dead baby and passed it off as their own?" Colby involuntarily shuddered, the thought of buying the remains of a child creeping him out.

"Since he didn't know where his son was buried, that could be _possible_. But I don't think it _likely_. Even with all of his resources, I doubt Randy Thompson would be able to buy a dead baby." Megan ran a tired hand listlessly through her hair. "All right, let's see what we have. Thompson wants to talk about her baby; her husband won't let her, so she thinks there must be some ominous reason for him denying the birth even occurred, and in her paranoia, she thinks it's because the baby never died- why else would he refuse to have a funeral? After she tried to kidnap the Eppes' baby, Randy must have realized his wife would never be mentally stable again unless he let her discuss the birth and death of their child. But now he has a problem- he doesn't know where his son is buried, so they can't have a funeral. What does he do?"

"We ruled out buying a baby, though, who knows..." Colby tried to bolster his argument. "He could have gotten one from the commune. The Thompsons weren't the only ones using a midwife. If another baby died, Randy could have convinced one of those transients to give it to him, so it would receive a proper burial. Or, he might have threatened to bring the authorities against them. A lot of illegal activities were going on at that place."

"But you said Whitehall was adamant that Thompson only came back that one time, and he sure didn't take a body with him then. No, I think it more likely that he just had a funeral with an empty coffin."

"Would that really be enough to convince Thompson the baby was dead?" Colby didn't think it plausible.

"The funeral alone, no; but what if the Thompsons' doctor signed a death certificate? Surely, she would have believed her own doctor. That, the public burial, and the ability to talk about the baby- altogether, I think that would be enough to convince her that the baby died."

"Then what's our next step? I mean, does this get us anywhere?" Colby was resting his eyes while he talked.

"I'm not sure where this information will take us, but the more we learn, most likely our chances of putting Thompson away will increase. As for our next step, I'm going to spend any extra time locating and calling the cemeteries in and around Alta Sierra. If there was a fake burial, I am sure it would have been at a place near the Thompsons' home; I can't imagine her not wanting to be close to her baby. I'll also see if I can locate their physician. If he was local, then he might not be too hard to find. Alta Sierra is not that big a place and they couldn't possibly have that many doctors." Megan yawned loudly into the phone. "Excuse me."

"No problem," Colby yawned himself, "It's late. Anything we haven't covered?"

"We still don't know what made Thompson suddenly think Don was her son again. Maybe digging around in her past will give us a reason. David is still talking to her current friends and acquaintances. Maybe one of them can give us a reason. And I _will _check Whitehall's tax records; see if I can find Alfie's present address. But," Megan chastised her coworker, "don't forget to ask Whitehall for his name. She may surprise you and say she buried him in the alfalfa field, too." Megan rested her chin on her hand, holding up her head.

"Don't think so," Colby said, unhappy with his coworker's teasing, "but I'll ask."

Concerned about Colby's sympathy for Whitehall, Megan wanted to remind him that it was imperative to get the stubborn woman to talk. "You know, what Thompson did to Don has made him very vulnerable. At the institute yesterday, some perv talked Don into climbing in his car and almost drove away with him. Alan and some of the staff were just barely able to stop the guy. Less than three months ago, Don would have been slapping handcuffs on an ass like that, and making sure to rough him up in the process. I understand why you feel sorry for Whitehall, but we have to get her to talk. Thompson needs to pay for what she did to Don."

Colby was silent, horrified that his former boss had almost been taken advantage of in such a sick and twisted way- and this time, by someone other than Thompson. Anger surged in him and he asked, "Where is the guy? I think me and a couple buddies are going to pay him a visit."

"Actually, I kinda already paid him that visit- I'll explain when you get back.And he is going to be arraigned in federal court first thing tomorrow morning- kidnapping of a federal officer of the United States of America. As soon as I told Nadine what happened, she snatched the guy from the LAPD, claiming jurisdiction."

"Really," Colby was puzzled, "How come they can press charges against him in federal court? You said he willingly went with the man."

"Nadine says it's a unique case. On the one hand, Don is still an officer of the U.S. government- the Bureau has him on a leave of absence, but legally, he is still a federal agent. On the other hand, he is under this conservatorship, which doesn't allow him to make the decision to go with someone else, not unless Alan approves of it. Nadine swears if she wins the case, she'll be making history." Megan closed her eyes from fatigue but permitted a smile to slip onto her face.

"With that conservatorship in place, why haven't they released Don from his duties? It seems kinda strange."

"Because it is only temporary. With the prospect of him getting better, plus the fact that he has already passed his yearly physical and psychological reviews, the union reps have threatened to file a grievance if they let him go. I don't know if their position will change, though- Alan is petitioning for permanent papers on Monday. But he insists it is only because the temporary ones are going to expire. He thinks Don will get better, and when he does, Alan plans to dissolve the permanent papers. I suspect the union and the Bureau are going to end up fighting it out."

"I wouldn't want to be mixed up in that- sounds like a real mess." Colby looked at the time. He hoped his dinner would be arriving soon. "You can fax those papers to the local police station- I'll be there first thing in the morning. Who knows, maybe Caleb will come forward before Nadine's subpoena arrives."

"I hope so, Colby. It's a sad situation, but she put herself in it. Don didn't have a chance to choose."

A knock sounded on Colby's door. He sprang up to answer it. "Gotta go, Meg. Dinner is here."

"Fine, Granger. And get plenty of sleep; I want you ready to interview Whitehall tomorrow- in you're usual way, fast and hard. Take the time to review Don's evaluations yourself, and it won't be so hard to remember who we should be giving our sympathy to."

When Megan hung up the phone, she found that thoughts about Don persisted. She was concerned about him, and his family, so she gave their house a call, glad to hear Alan's friendly but weary voice greeting her, hoping she hadn't woken him up.


	40. What You Dreamed

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person, real or imagined.

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It was the scream that woke Charlie.

Not the rocking motion next to him in bed.

Nor the sudden thrust of a shoulder into his chest.

It was the sound of his brother's scream that woke him up, and propelled him across the room, throwing the light on so fast that the bulb almost fizzled.

Alan sat up in bed, reaching for Don.

"It's a nightmare Charlie," he called to his youngest son, who stood wide-eyed at the door to the room. "Help me calm him down." Alan placed his left arm across Don's chest, trying to keep his head amongst their array of pillows, and away from the hard wood of the headboard.

Charlie was in shock, from being so harshly awakened, and from a kind of fear that only Don's scream could instill in him, fear that his brother was being taken away or harmed again. But the feeling quickly fled. All his thoughts refocused on protecting his brother from what were apparently _imagined_ terrors. He ran back to the bed and quickly climbed on his knees next to Don, who laid on his right side, propped in position by Alan from behind. In seconds Charlie was able to locate, analyze, and number the different signs of anxiety that were evident in his brother's body language, ordering them so he could decide which area of his body to first touch and massage, so he could efficiently provide the most calming and soothing effect as fast as possible.

Don was straining against his father's arm, his back arching and his stomach pulling out. In the back of his mind, Charlie regretted having talked his father out of wrapping Don in the top sheet before they went to bed. With freedom of movement, Don was able to flail his arms about, kick out his feet, and throw back his head, every muscle straining as he tried to bend his body in half backwards, as if trying to move away from some unseen danger behind him. Alternately, he shook out his legs, trying to free them from the unseen demons gripping them.

The shaking and thrusting legs were what Charlie numbered to be the greatest area of concern, the remaining scars of numerous rat bites still vaguely apparent under the hair on Don's legs. Every time Don threw out his legs, his head slammed back, risking further damage to his brain. While Alan kept all their pillows within the immediate vicinity of Don's head and visually searched amongst the bedding for Buddy, Charlie scurried down to his brother's calves, sat on his own bottom with his thin legs in front of him, and awkwardly dragged Don's heavier legs over his lap, taking several minutes because he had a hard time getting his arms around them and because he could barely lift their weight. When he finally had a strong grip on Don's legs, Charlie laid his upper body on top of the jerking limbs, ignoring the pain when he was kneed more than once in the chest and side. He turned his face towards the general direction of Don's, running his hands vigorously up and down Don's calves, shouting to be heard above the loud crying and bellows of pain coming from his brother, trying to haul him from the grips of the nightmare.

"Don! Don! It's alright. All gone, they're all gone."

The crying and screaming continued, Don lost to the sensations of biting rats and slashing belts.

"Don! Look at me! Look at me!" Charlie was screaming now, too, trying to reach his brother.

Alan wanted to calm his son, but was at a loss as to what he should do. He was afraid to hold Don's head too tight, not sure if it would aggravate his condition. And he didn't know what to say to him, as the few soothing words he tried to speak had fallen on deaf ears. So Alan once again found himself in the new but surprisingly welcome position of relying on Charlie, trusting that he knew what to do. Keeping an arm loosely across Don's shoulders and arms, an eye on the position of his head, Alan faithfully allowed Charlie to try and pacify his brother.

"Don! Don! Look at me! Open your eyes and look at me!" Charlie was beginning to sound desperate. And he was. Charlie sped up his hand motions, pressing into Don's legs, trying to make him _feel _his presence. Believing it had been forever, but knowing it had only been six minutes and twenty-two seconds, Charlie let out a whoosh of air when he finally got a response and Don raised his eyelids, his eyes darting fearfully around the room before they settled on Charlie, who locked onto them with his own. Don's screaming weakened, his voice hoarse as he tried to explain the reason for his fear, "Teeth...sharp...teeth...teeth...hurt."

"Don!" Charlie demanded his attention. "Look at my hands. Look- they're all gone!" Charlie pulled his body up from Don, but continued to rub the slowly-stilling legs before him. Don's eyes drifted down to his legs, watching as his younger brother wiped away the horrible creatures from one of his darkest dreams. Eventually, his legs stopped their strongest movements, though an occasional shiver lightly shook them.

But another beast continued to assault Don, and with the rats gone, he began anew his struggle to escape her, his back arching again and quiet sobs continuing to reel up raggedly through his throat.

Charlie realized Don was no longer looking his way and he became fearful of losing him to his other nightmare. The legs no longer a major concern, Charlie pushed them aside, turned around, and moved up the bed, lying down on top of his brother's left side, gently, while Alan moved his arm out of the way. Charlie was a skilled balancing act as he made sure his entire weight did not fall upon Don, his mouth inches from Don's left ear as he lifted up the back of his t-shirt. He massaged Don's lower back with his right hand, whispering repeatedly, "No pain, it's all gone, Don. Nobody's going to hurt you anymore. Shhhh."

Don arched his back, but more feebly than before, his eyes searching for Charlie. Finding his face nearby, Don cried, "Ow, Charlie...Ow, Ow, Ow."

"I know, Don. I'm going to make it go away." Charlie breathed his words softly into Don's ear, his hand gently moving back and forth across his brother's skin, instinctively knowing he needed to soothe this time in order to keep this particular monster at bay.

"Ow, Charlie. Hurts...hurts...real bad."

Alan slipped away from his sons and stood over the bed. He started tossing up the blankets and sheets, until he found what he was looking for kicked into the corner of the bed. Kneeling on one knee, at the head of the bed, facing Charlie and Don, Alan leaned forward and spoke towards Charlie, "I've got Buddy." Nodding but refusing to take his eyes from Don's or to stop rubbing his back, Charlie maneuvered so that most of his weight fell upon his left knee, allowing him to continue his act of assuagement while he reached out his left hand to take Buddy. Once he had a firm grip, he pushed the toy down to Don's hands, moving it back and forth until he felt it taken from his grasp.

Don felt the familiar softness of Buddy's fur between his fingers and clutched him to his chest. His right thumb snaked its way into his mouth.

When Don's movements slowed and his cries disappeared, and it was obvious that Charlie had everything under control, Alan went to the bedroom door. "I'm going downstairs to find him another sedative. We used up the last of the bottle in the nightstand. Will you two be okay by yourselves?"

Charlie silently nodded, his eyes still on Don.

Don stared up at Charlie. He had not meant to think about Mommy, but she had come into his dreams uninvited, soon after they got in bed. And it had been so real. He was sure she knew what he was thinking, that he wanted to stay here, that he loved her a whole lot, but maybe he loved Charlie and his daddy a lot more. So, she came to him, knowing his thoughts, and had punished him, for not being a good little boy, for not doing what she said, using the belt she had stolen back the night before. All day long he had done things that he knew she would not approve of him doing, and at night, she had come to reteach him what happened to little boys who don't listen to their mommies, but listen to their brothers instead.

Don was scared.

When he tried to run away, from Mommy and from her belt, he had ended up on a solid sea of black. A hand had reached for him and he thought it was Charlie, but when he drew near, the face of the _Badman_ at the doctor's was connected to the hand and he tried to run again, but the _Badman _wouldn't let go. Mommy came for him and he tried to scream, but he couldn't. Mommy shook her head and he knew she wouldn't save him, that she was going to let the _Badman_ do what he did before, because he had talked to a stranger again, and then there were teeth, everywhere... Mommy had just smiled, as she began teaching him her own lesson with the belt, trying to teach him that he shouldn't talk to Charlie or Daddy, either.

The dreams made Don really scared. Mommy had so much power, she could see what he thought and could teach him in his sleep, even when she wasn't with him. He felt helpless against her lessons, and against the _Badman,_ who she had promised he would never have to see again, but she had lied, allowing him to come into his dreams. The teeth had been sharper than ever, and it had felt like he was being devoured, over and over again. When Mommy hit with the belt, it was even worse, feeling as real as the third time she had hit him, wet in the bathtub, agonizing and deep.

When all that pain had built to a crescendo, Don found he could finally scream, overwhelmed with the harsh punishment.

But then, just like magic, Charlie had put his hand on his legs and the teeth had run away. And when Charlie set his palm on his back, he had rubbed away the pain, making it disappear into nothing. Don kept his eyes on Charlie, wondering about _his _power- to make him feel good, to make him feel happy, to chase away everybody and everything that hurt him in his life- the power he had to keep him safe.

The only doubt that Don felt about his brother's prowess was whether Charlie could protect _himself_ from Mommy, if he could defeat her in person, when she was real and not just in his dreams. Don was certain Charlie would try to defend him if Mommy got mad, but he was less sure that he wanted him to, not wanting his brother to get hurt. Another small part of Don Eppes' innate personality was working its way through the mess that Melinda Thompson had created, the part that identified his little brother as a shy, innocent child, and that part wanted to be his brother's protector, needed to be.

Charlie began to slow his massaging, trying to rest his palm on Don's skin when he began to tire. Missing the soothing strokes on his lower back, Don would say 'ow' each time Charlie stopped, prompting Charlie to recommence his comforting caresses.

Eventually, Charlie caught on to Don's manipulation and he smiled. He rolled up and off of Don, then scooted up the bed, sitting upright.

Don watched him. Not wanting to lose Charlie's attention, he said 'ow' again, the word reverberating around his thumb, but receiving no response, he said it again, this time louder. "Ow".

Charlie cocked an eyebrow at his brother. "Do you really hurt, Don?"

Don had to think about the question, because he didn't want to lie to Charlie. He was afraid if he did that Charlie wouldn't believe him the next time he hurt really bad, and would refuse to massage away the pain in his back and scatter the teeth from his legs.

He thought about his legs; no, they were fine.

His back? No, it felt better- _a lot better_.

Arms, shoulders, stomach, feet...Everything was okay.

He was about to say no, he didn't hurt, when two sensations caught his attention. The one was the taste of blood. The other was an ache in his head.

Don pulled himself into a sitting position next to Charlie. He took his thumb from his mouth and looked at it.

His interest tweaked, Charlie bent towards Don and checked his thumb, turning it into different positions. It was apparent to him that Don had bit his thumb, probably in his sleep, because there were two small gashes on opposite sides from each other.

"Come on," Charlie said, jumping out of bed. He helped Don up and out, leading him across the hall to the bathroom. Once inside, Charlie softly asked him, "Did you have any accidents?" Two lowered eyes answered his question and Charlie set Buddy aside, going about the business of cleaning his brother. When finished, he seated Don on the toilet lid and then checked the medicine cabinet for an antiseptic. He grabbed a spray and two bandages, sat on the edge of the bathtub and cleaned Don's thumb.

"OW!" Don yelped when the spray hit his cuts. Charlie quickly blew on his thumb until Don nodded it was okay.

"Don," Charlie explained as he applied the bandages, "you can't suck on your thumb. You have to wear these band-aides all night."

"I have to," Don complained. But when he stuck it in his mouth, the taste of the plastic caused him to make a face.

"Try your other thumb," Charlie suggested.

Shifting Buddy to his right arm, Don tried out his left thumb. He appeared satisfied, so Charlie took him back toward their room, running into their father in the hallway.

"Feeling better, Donny?" he asked.

"Yeah…no, head hurts." Don put his finger to his right temple.

Alan frowned. After a close inspection, he told Charlie, "We better give him some pain medication and call Wang in the morning. I didn't see him hit his head, but better safe than sorry."

They were interrupted by the ringing of the downstairs phone.

"Go ahead, Dad, I'll get Don to bed." Charlie took the bottle of sedatives from his father, and watched as he trotted down the stairs. After getting a cup of water from the bathroom, he took Don into the bedroom and helped him take his medicine.

When Charlie had finished putting away the meds, he did his own inspection of his brother. Don was sitting on the edge of the bed, twisting his left thumb in his mouth in an attempt to adjust to the change, Buddy on the bed to his right. His shoulders were slumped inwards and he had sunk down physically, his whole body bent in upon itself. Charlie was reminded of pictures he had seen of children lost at the police station, their forlorn faces oddly cheerier than Don's.

Charlie told Don to climb into bed. He thought about wrapping him in the top sheet, but decided to chance doing without it. With Don having already had a nightmare and looking so depressed, Charlie knew himself well enough to know he would sleep shallowly at best and would be ready if any other torturous visions snuck into his brother's dreams that night.

After he shut off the bedroom light and cracked the door, Charlie followed Don into bed, sitting with his back against the headboard while Don lay on his side next to him with his eyes open. Charlie covered Don and himself with the blankets, and then, attuned to Don's mood, asked him if anything was wrong.

It took a while for Don to answer. He eyes stared across the room at the dresser positioned in front of the bedroom closet. Don took his thumb from his mouth and used it along with his finger to twist his ear. When he opened his mouth to speak, Charlie patiently listened while Don tried to express himself with frequent and long pauses between each set of syllables.

"Why can't I be…"

Don took several deep breaths.

"…be like you?"

Charlie was surprised that Don would ask him that question, wondering what made him think of it. Used to Don comparing their intelligences, Charlie replied, "You know I'm real good at math, Don. But you're smart in all kinds of different ways."

"No," Don shook his head, "not smart like you…"

Several pauses lined up, then-

"Brave like you."

Charlie was flabbergasted. Whenever anyone made a comparison between him and Don, the word _brave_ never seemed to be on his list of characteristics. Smart, sweet, kind, gentle, gifted, intelligent, genius, workaholic- the list could go on forever, but never would anyone, least of all Charlie, have put that particular word on his side of the equation.

And to be referred to in that way by _Don_ both exhilarated and saddened Charlie. He was happy to have his brother see him as brave, to see him as the one who could provide protection, to have Don look up to him like he had always looked up to Don.

But Charlie could not help but feel disheartened that his brave brother, who had always been there for him when _he_ needed protection, as well as any other person who asked for his help, was now reduced to being in awe of his younger brother's ability to chase away the imaginary terrors of his dreams, as if he really were a child.

"Don, you are like me. You're brave."

"No, Charlie. Am not…Always scared."

"You know, Don, someone once told me he was scared sometimes, too. But he had learned that not being afraid isn't what makes you brave. It's doing what you have to do even when you are scared."

Don thought about this. "Who told you that?"

Charlie leaned over and pulled Don's face towards his. "You did, Don. And I believed you. That's why _I _can be brave now, even though I'm afraid sometimes, too."

Don pulled his head back down. "It's okay if…I'm scared?"

"Yeah, Don. But I'll be with you when you are, and I'll stay by your side. I think we can face anything, as long as we're together."

"Can I be scared…now?" Don's eyes traced the outline of the closet, knowing it was devoid of Mommy's belt.

"Yeah, Don. And I'll be here if you need me."

"I do need you." Don lifted his eyes to Charlie, who responded by opening his arms.

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"Megan, it's good to hear from you." Alan sat down in his recliner, putting his feet up, massaging his eyes with one hand.

"Hi, Alan. I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No. Unfortunately, no." He explained to her about Don's nightmare, adding, "I think it's a delayed reaction to what happened at the institute yesterday. I don't think he quite understood everything that occurred. Plus"- Alan hesitated. He did not want any of Don's friends to blame themselves for Thompson getting into their house.

"What's wrong Alan?"

He sighed heavily. They would need to know. "We're certain Thompson broke into our house last night." He told her all that they had found. "Nothing appeared missing, and Don, of course, wouldn't tell us anything. But who else would have left those bottles?"

Megan felt her earlier anger rising again. "Obviously, it had to be her. And I'm sorry to have to tell you that we can't watch the house anymore- not that it did you any good to begin with."

"No, Megan- don't you guys start blaming yourselves. Thompson has this agenda about Don, and it seems impossible for any of us to second guess her. As for that Jackson guy, well, that wasn't even at the house."

"I know you're right, Alan, but please allow me a little guilt."

"Well, I'll only allow you a small portion, even though, trust me, there seems plenty enough of it to go around." He thought about his own self-criminations. "I don't understand this woman, Megan, why she would risk getting arrested to feed Don two bottles. Is Thompson so sick that she can't go for too long a period of time without treating him that way, like she's a drug addict and hurting Don is her fix?"

"It's probably one reason. But don't be misled into thinking that she doesn't know _exactly _what she's doing, _unlike _someone on drugs. Abusers don't like to lose their control, and if Don is starting to break away from her grip, she will use any method available to her to regain it. I wouldn't be surprised if the real reason she broke in was to threaten Don last night, as well as you and Charlie. We see that a lot in cases of child molestation and spousal abuse. When the abused tries to get away, the abuser threatens to harm the family if their needs aren't met."

"Charlie has been helping Don through his scary moments- you know, visits to the doctor, meeting new people, this nightmare tonight; if she did make threats, maybe Don won't believe her if he thinks Charlie can protect him."

"Maybe, but Alan, remember that deep down inside that childlike exterior is _Don_, and he has always been protective of his family. If Thompson threatened you guys, Don might be willing to do anything she says to keep you and Charlie out of danger. It would be a good idea to keep reassuring him that you can protect yourselves."

"Thanks, Megan. I'll talk to Charlie about it in the morning. Speaking of the devil, Thompson's supposedly responsible for getting us our hearing date this Monday. Don't know what she's up to. I almost canceled it with my lawyer, Harvey Johnson, but then this thing with Jackson happened and I had to call him tonight, tell him we needed to go ahead with it."

"You don't think she's going to petition to get Don, do you?"

"My lawyer says only a spouse or adult child could receive conservatorship before me, so no, that would be pointless. We don't know her angle yet. But if she files papers contesting the petition, Johnson says we should be able to figure it out then."

"Keep us posted, Alan, we want to do everything we can to help."

"Of course, Megan. And let me thank you and Don's friends again, for all your help. Because I'm afraid I need to ask you how his case is going."

"I'm glad you brought that up, Alan. Really, I am. Colby went to Sonoma Valley today, and interviewed this woman. Her name is Caleb Whitehall- does the name ring a bell?"

"Whitehall, Whitehall…Mmmmm. Don't know about the Whitehall, but Caleb is unusual enough. I think Margaret and I met one- I don't know- back when we were in the peace movement; when we were just getting interested in voter registration. If she was in Sonoma Valley back in the early seventies, then we probably met her the one time we visited a commune."

"Actually, she's still at that commune. She was running it at the time."

"Oh, now I remember. Young girl, long brown hair. She took care of Donny in her house while I dragged Margaret off to the, uh, activities down in the main portion of the commune. Does she have something to do with Don's kidnapping?"

Megan gave a shortened version of the events Colby had described to her, including what she knew about what had happened to the five principles involved. When she finished, Alan sat still in disbelief, unable to respond to the strange tale. He finally blew out a stream of furious air. "Why didn't she tell us? We sure the hell would have pressed charges. Or Margaret would have taken Thompson out right then and there. And what insane reason could she have for not testifying now?"

"I don't understand her reasoning either, Alan. Guilt does strange things to people, and can keep them from thinking straight. Colby is going to back to see her tomorrow, armed with Don's medical reports, if that's alright with you. We hope she'll come to her senses if she sees how much damage Thompson has done."

"Yes, it is definitely alright with me. But will it be enough to take Thompson to court?"

"I'll have to see what Nadine says when I give her the information. Did anyone inform you that she pressed federal charges against Jackson?"

"Yes, I talked to David earlier in the day. I must thank you for sticking up for Don." Before Megan could say 'your welcome', Alan admonished, "And please don't do anything that foolish again. It may have felt good at the time; well, really good, but I don't want you getting in trouble over Don, and I know he wouldn't want you to, either."

"I promise to keep my emotions in check, Alan." But Megan wondered if what she said was true. "Getting back to Thompson, we were wondering what her reason would be for thinking Don is her son again, over three decades after she first believed it. Now that you know some of her background, can you think of something?"

"No, I can't. I don't even know Thompson- didn't back then and certainly not today."

"Whitehall said you knew of her husband, that he was known as Thoreau, and that's why you went to the commune."

Alan pushed the recliner into an upright position. "_Thoreau _was her husband? I never knew him as Thompson- he left the L.A. scene at about the same time Margaret and I were just starting our own involvement. And you say that he died from cancer, just like Margaret..." Alan sat quietly contemplating the strange connections that were appearing between his past and Don's recent kidnapping. Thoreau's death from cancer made Alan think about Margaret, and how they had thought the weirdest place they would ever visit would be that commune in the early seventies. But, as it turned out, they had been wrong about the commune; it hadn't been as odd as another place they had more recently visited, and thinking about that particular place caused a small memory to be unexpectantly jostled from Alan's mind. "There might be a recent connection after all. When Margaret was in the last stages of her cancer, I insisted we try some alternative medicine. And yes, I know all about the con artists out there, but when it's someone you love, money doesn't seem to matter anymore."

"I'm not here to judge you, Alan. I'm just trying to make sense out of Thompson's renewed interest in Don."

"Yes, yes. Well, we went to this clinic outside Bakersfield. A lot of holistic mumbo-jumbo if you ask me, but we tried the herbs they gave us anyway. Obviously, they didn't work. But I remember this one time, about three months before she finally passed… Margaret and I were in the waiting room, Donny sitting in a corner away from us because the room was so packed, and naturally he wanted me to sit with my wife. Two seats cleared near Don, and we got up to go sit next to him, but this woman and man took the seats instead. Margaret was feeling particularly bad that day, and for some reason, being separated from Donny just made her feel worse. It bothered me so much that I kept my eyes on him while we sat there for nearly an hour, hoping three seats would become available so Margaret could be near our son. Megan, that woman talked to Donny the entire time, completely ignoring the man she had come with, and when we were called in to see the doctor, she turned her head towards Don while he practically carried his mother into the office. I don't know if I would even remember the incident, except it was our last visit there. Margaret refused to return, said the place gave her the heebie-jeebies."

"Have you seen pictures of Thompson? Was it her?"

Alan admitted with embarrassment, "No, I haven't thought of looking at her picture. I have been too busy with Donny- but if you could fax a couple to Charlie, it would probably be helpful now that we are going to be his sole lookouts; which is something you do _not_ have to feel guilty about."

After a slight pause, Alan continued thoughtfully, "It wouldn't matter if I had looked at her picture anyway. I didn't get a good look at the woman's face at the holistic clinic; her back was to us, but, the important thing is, her husband's wasn't." Alan sat at the end of his seat, excited. "I met Thoreau once, briefly, at a gathering in L.A., while we were trying to get support for voter registration rallies; our meeting was really no more than a handshake. Nevertheless, the man made quite an impression on me, and I never forgot his face. That's why I went to the commune, so I could have a longer meeting with this memorable man. And now that you tell me he had cancer, I remember when we were at the clinic that last day and walked by the couple who had been sitting near Donny. I glanced at them before going into the office; the woman's face was tilted towards the ground, so I couldn't see her features. But I could clearly see her partner's face, and I remember thinking at the time that I knew the man. I can't identify the woman as Dr. Thompson, but I now realize that the man sitting next to her was Thoreau."

"So, Don and Thompson made contact a little over two years ago. I'm not sure what to make of that."

"But does it help in any way?"

"Yes, Alan, every bit of information helps- we just don't know how yet. If you can remember the exact date of that meeting, give me a call." Hearing the older man yawn through the phone, Megan decided it was time to end their conversation. "Listen, I'm feeling a little tuckered out. Why don't I call you tomorrow night? I can let you know how Jackson's arraignment goes and what Colby finds out. And even though we've been given more work to do, David and I are going to follow up one or two more leads."

"Thanks, Megan. I'll appreciate you calling me."

"I have one last question, Alan. How is Charlie coming along with that algorithm to determine the nature of Don's head trauma?"

"He hasn't made much progress. I'm afraid Don's care is taking up more time than we had thought it would. And tomorrow, I'll be gone for at least half the day filing a restraining order against Thompson, which means Charlie probably won't be able to work on it at all, even though Larry is supposed to come by."

"I'm not surprised that he isn't getting anywhere, especially considering the limited time he has to work with. Tell him not to worry about it. His work was a long shot, anyway. All the experts say that the damage could have been caused by too many different things. Charlie is doing the right thing by focusing on Don's therapy."

They both said their goodbyes

When Alan finished his phone conversation, he quickly went back to Don's bedroom. But he did not enter, pausing in the doorway to the room.

Charlie was propped halfway up the headboard on the left side of the bed. Don was curled in a fetal position upon the bed, his head on Charlie's stomach, with Buddy squished underneath it like a pillow, his left thumb in his mouth and dried tears staining his face, frightened eyes staring ahead, presumably at nothing. The fingers of Charlie's left hand were making symmetrical designs on Don's exposed lower back, while the fingers of his right hand ran the same patterns through his hair. Alan listened as Charlie sang softly to his brother, an event that was becoming more and more familiar.

Alan recognized how off-key Charlie was when he sang, his voice a little too high and a little too scratchy. But somehow he managed to make the small lullabies beautiful and rich, as if they resonated from deep in his soul. Alan was aware that they were using medications and therapy to help Don grow out of the need for this kind of comfort, but he could not help but be grateful that they would be allowed more personal times like these during the interim, when their love for each other could be so simply and openly expressed, and would be so readily accepted by a man that once held them further away than an arm's length- at one time, holding them as far away as the distance from L.A. to Albuquerque.


	41. How You Misunderstood Me

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or any character therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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"What do you want now, Melinda?"

"What do you think, Gordon?"

Pause.

Sigh.

"Melinda, if this is in reference to our conversation last night, I'm not about to say another word."

"But I need to know if it was taken care of."

"You sound a little anxious, Melinda. Don't think you've ever sounded that way before."

"Shut up, Gordon. This is important. If he gets out again, I could lose my son."

Sigh.

"They're charging him in federal court, Melinda. I highly doubt he'll be released any time soon."

"They let _me_ go."

"Yes, and despite your habit of discrediting my skills, I did have a lot to do with that."

"Fine, Gordon. Thank you once again- for taking my money, and for allowing me access to a son I should have had thirty-five years ago."

No response.

Concession of defeat.

"All right, Melinda. I'll find out what's happening. You should know by tomorrow morning at the latest."

Partial relief.

"And Director Donaldson, you'll be seeing him soon?"

"Yes, Friday morning. Call a few more of those political allies you are so often bragging about. We need the cards stacked in our favor."

"Gordon, you should know by now I always play with a _marked _deck. I would never risk losing."

"Then we should be all set to win, Melinda."

"And the papers contesting the petition?"

"I have them ready, so I've decided to file them early this morning."

"But does filing this soon give the Eppes an edge?"

"No, Melinda. I think it gives them just enough time to infer what our supposed plan of attack is, but not enough to see our assault from behind."

Silence.

Hesitation.

"Gordon, we have one other person to worry about."

Sigh.

"Who is it now, Melinda? And for Pete's sake, don't state any specifics over the phone."

"I wouldn't _think_ of telling you how to handle your end of the business, Gordon. You know that."

_Right._

"Who is it, Melinda? I don't have all day."

"One of my son's colleagues went up to Sonoma Valley, and found an old friend…"

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Don sat sullenly on the edge of his bed, dressed only in boxers and socks. Charlie was at his dresser, taking out some clothes, yawning as he did so. Their father was across the hall, taking a long, cold shower, trying to wake himself up.

It had been a rough night for the Eppes men.

Though he had taken another sedative, Don had woken up from nightmares two more times, Charlie scrambling to calm him after each occurrence. Don had clung to Charlie all night, fighting a losing battle with sleep, finding that with each loss he was terrorized once again by the monsters of his dreams. Charlie had tried to rest, but did as he supposed he would and settled for a shallow sleep, his body worn down by the fear emanating from his brother.

It had also taken a harsh toll on Alan, who refused to sleep after the second incidence, electing to stay awake instead, sitting under a blanket in the recliner. Early in the morning, Charlie had found his father succumbed to exhaustion; he had been slumped over in the chair, snoring loudly, dark circles under his eyes and the corner of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly.

Charlie had left his fitfully-sleeping family and trotted downstairs to prepare breakfast, leaving the food to warm in the oven when he finished. When he had gotten back to Don's room, he'd run into Alan, who was just exiting. At that time, Alan relayed to Charlie his conversation with Megan the night before, re-spurring the desire in Charlie to find the cause of Don's brain trauma, thoroughly convinced that Dr. Thompson would never leave his brother alone unless she was prevented to do so by the steel bars of a prison cell.

After their conversation, Charlie had woken Don and given him his bath while Alan quickly ate breakfast. Alan also felt pressed into action by his conversation with Megan; he was going to the courthouse that morning in order to file the papers necessary in obtaining a restraining order against Thompson. His lawyer had informed Alan that if he filed early enough, that sometimes the judge would have time to make a determination on the same day. So, Alan had gulped down his food and grabbed some of Don's binders, taking them upstairs to review while he waited for Don to finish his bath. When his sons finally entered the bedroom, Alan had jumped in the shower while Charlie started his routine of dressing his brother.

While Don was currently sitting on his bed, he appeared to be staring at Charlie. In actuality, his eyes were glued to the closet beyond. He knew Mommy had taken the belt, and now she was using it on him every time he went to sleep. Charlie helped make its stinging pain go away, but Don wanted to keep it from beginning in the first place. Only, he didn't know how to do that. Throughout the night, whenever his mind was clear, he thought about letting Charlie know what Mommy had done; maybe Charlie could get the belt back. But Don hadn't had the courage to say anything, because it was one of Mommy's secrets and he knew he wasn't supposed to tell. Besides, Don thought the only way for Charlie to get the belt back would be to confront Mommy, and he still didn't know if Charlie was stronger than Mommy when she was real and not in his dreams. Don didn't want Charlie getting hurt just because _he_ was in pain; he would rather suffer than see that happen.

But then, Don wondered if Charlie could steal the belt back, without Mommy knowing- just like she had taken it in the first place, without Charlie knowing. Don knew his brother was smart and could solve a lot of problems. After all, hadn't he figured out how to chase the teeth and pain away each time they came last night? If Charlie could do that, then there was a good chance he would be able to get the belt from Mommy without getting hurt, by being like Daddy when they ate lunch yesterday: sneaky.

While Don continued to debate his options, Charlie dressed him. When he finished tying Don's shoelaces, Charlie went to the dresser and picked up three pieces of chalk. They were replacements for the ones Don's accident had ruined Monday, though Don hadn't noticed the substitution. After sliding them into Don's jeans pocket, Charlie led him downstairs to eat, Buddy tucked under Don's left arm.

It was the presence of Charlie's chalk in his pocket that compelled Don to tell his brother about Mommy and the belt. The chalk provided Don a comforting feeling, knowing that Charlie wanted him and that he had a home. A safe home, until Mommy had taken the belt. Don decided to tell Charlie what Mommy had done because he wanted to feel safe again. Don reasoned that even if Mommy got mad, she had never done anything worse than belt him, and since she was already doing that in his dreams, his situation couldn't get any worse.

After Charlie put on his feeding glove, Don put his hand on the table and made no movement to eat. Charlie easily perceived that something was bothering him.

"What's wrong, Don? Are you unhappy with the food Dad made?"

Tentatively, Don replied, "No. It's fine."

Charlie began to rub Don's back. "Is it about your nightmares?"

Nervously, Don nodded. He kept his eyes on the plate before him, frightened that he was about to tell Charlie one of Mommy's secrets. What if Mommy _did_ do something else to him-worse than the belt and more horrible than the teeth?

But then Charlie was talking to him reassuringly and was massaging away his fears.

"Don, we talked about being afraid. Remember, it's okay. Even though you were scared, we still made it through the night, because we stayed together. I promised I would be there when you needed me, and you see that I was, so there is no reason for you to worry. If it happens again tonight, I'll still be there for you."

Believing his brother's promise, Don swallowed several times and took a deep breath. "Mommy hit me."

Charlie increased his efforts to soothe. "I know, Don. But she can't do that to you anymore, not for real."

Don shook his head.

"Don, I locked up the belt, remember? Mommy can't hit you with it anymore."

Shaking his head a second time, Don tried to explain. "It's gone."

Misunderstanding Don and thinking he had been asked a question, Charlie answered, "Yes, I put it away. Nobody can hit you now."

Just as Don was about to tell Charlie that he meant it was gone because Mommy took it, the phone rang in the living room.

"I'll be right back, Don. Okay?" Receiving a positive reply, Charlie went to answer it. Lifting up the receiver, he was surprised to hear Amita on the other end of the line. "Hey, it's good to hear from you- finally." Listening to the soothing voice on the other end of the line, Charlie grabbed the phone and carried it into the dining room, running into his father, who was buttoning his shirt as he came down the stairs.

"Who's on the phone, Charlie?"

"Amita," came a whispered response.

"Oh. Well, let me feed Don so you two can talk."

Charlie asked, "Are you sure? You don't have much time before you have to leave for court, and Don's still upset about his nightmares. I've been trying to make him feel better."

Alan checked his watch. "I'm ready to go and it won't take more than twenty minutes to feed him, so yeah, I'll still get out of here according to schedule. Talk to her, Charlie, you deserve a little break. I'll talk to Don."

Hesitant to leave Don, Charlie told Amita to hold on. He held the receiver flat to his shoulder blade and asked his brother, "Don, can I talk to my friend for a little bit? Dad will have to help you eat. Is that alright with you?"

Reluctantly, Don told Charlie, "Yes, it's okay." Then Charlie rubbed his shoulder and walked back into the living room.

Alan sat next to Don, and put his hands in position to massage his neck. Don ate quietly, partially listening to his father's words of comfort in his ear, glancing into the living room now and then to look at Charlie. He had known one of his brother's friends was coming to visit today, but he didn't know one was going to call, too. This presented a difficulty for Don, because he had been used to Charlie spending all of his free time with Don and their father- and not with anybody else. As he listened to Charlie talk on the phone, Don tried to ignore the discomforting feeling building in the pit of his stomach, but somehow it persisted. Until Charlie had gotten on the phone and began to pay attention to his friend- _ignoring me,_ Don thought glumly- it hadn't occurred to Don that when Charlie's friend came over, his brother would want to spend some time with him, maybe even alone. And Don was slowly becoming aware that he might not like that. After all, Charlie was _his_ brother and nobody else's, so why should he have to share him with somebody else? The more he thought about it, the more Don was convinced he didn't want to meet Charlie's friend, and he didn't want his brother to spend any time with him.

When he finished eating, Don picked up Buddy, then went and sat on the couch next to Charlie, who smiled and patted him on the knee while he continued his conversation with Amita. Don wanted to finish telling Charlie about the belt because it was still bothering him. But he was also becoming upset about the time Charlie was spending on the phone, even though it hadn't been that long. Don decided the best way of solving both problems was to ask Charlie to check for the belt; it would not only allow Charlie to know what had happened, but would get him off the phone because he would have to go upstairs to do so. Don was sure it was a brilliant plan to get his brother's attention all to himself.

"Charlie," Don whined, giving his most imploring look, the one that Mommy always loved. He was pleased to see Charlie couldn't resist it either.

Lifting the receiver up and away from his mouth, Charlie asked worriedly, "What's wrong, Don?"

"The belt… it's gone?"

"Yes, Don it is." Charlie replied.

"Don't believe you." Don said, looking sad.

Charlie listened to Amita chatter away on the phone, not really paying attention to what she was saying; all the while his concern for Don was growing. When Don had woken the previous night, his worst dreams had been about the belt and Thompson hitting him with it. When the third nightmare had come, Charlie had absentmindedly checked Don's back for fresh belt marks; Don's belief that he was being hit again was so convincing that in the back of his mind, Charlie was afraid that maybe, by some evil trick that Thompson had come up with, Don really was being hit. Charlie had felt oddly relieved when his eyes were able to see what his mind already knew: it was impossible for Thompson to actually be hitting Don. Though this physical evidence might have been sufficient to dissipate Charlie's worries, it was apparent to him that it wasn't enough to convince Don.

Charlie attributed Don's fears to Thompson's visit and the threats that Megan conjectured the woman had made. Now, Charlie was faced with a dilemma. Because Don's nightmares were so real to him, he was having a hard time believing Charlie still had the belt. And, of course, Charlie no longer had it- the Bureau did. Briefly, Charlie wondered if Thompson had found out that he had given the belt to Megan, but realized that was not possible; no matter who the woman could influence, Charlie knew Don's friends would have kept the Bureau's possession of the belt a well-guarded secret.

Alan came into the living room, looking at his watch. "I've got to leave, Charlie, but I can't find any of Don's binders- specifically, the ones with his evaluations. Do you know where they are?"

Charlie asked Amita if she could hold on a minute, put the receiver on the couch, and then told his father, "They're upstairs in Don's room, next to the recliner- where you left them this morning."

"Oh," Alan said sheepishly, "I must be more tired than I thought. I'll just run and get them."

"Better get another tie while you're at it," Charlie pointed at Alan's chest, "that one has ground apples on it." Alan lifted up his tie, sighing when he saw that Charlie was right. "I don't have time to dig around for another one. I'll just go dab some water on it." He glanced at the time again. "Damn! If I don't get out of here soon, I'm going to get stuck in rush hour." He headed out of the living room.

Charlie followed his father. "Go wash your tie in the kitchen and I'll find the binder with the evaluations. Save you a little time."

"Okay," Alan said, "but be quick about it. I really have to leave."

Charlie ran upstairs and into Don's room; he grabbed the binders and quickly scanned them.

"Charlie! Hurry up!" Alan called up to him. Charlie kept flipping papers as he bounced down the stairs. He clipped two sections of one binder and held it out to his father.

"These are the general summaries of his condition." He pointed to the pages he had separated.

"Thanks, Charlie. Uh, you wouldn't happen to know where I put the papers we filled out last night- I can't seem to remember anything this morning?" Alan tiredly ran a finger over his eyebrow.

"It's okay. We left them near the front door, so you wouldn't forget where they were. Didn't work, huh?" Charlie grinned.

"Speaking of forgetting things, isn't Amita still on the phone?" Alan returned Charlie's grin when he saw him propel into the living room.

Charlie plopped on the couch next to Don, picking up the phone. Before he could say anything, Don inquired, "Charlie, the belt?"

"Don't worry," Charlie assured him again, "It's gone, Don. It can't hurt you anymore." He gave Don a comforting touch on his arm. "Let me say goodbye and we can talk about it some more."

Don was becoming more and more upset. He had seen Charlie go upstairs and mistakenly thought it had been to see about the belt. Then, when Charlie had returned and again stated that it was gone, Don thought Charlie meant that he _had _checked and the belt was still in the closet. It was a complete misunderstanding of Charlie's actions and words, but as a result, Don believed Charlie had lied to him. Don was convinced he knew why Charlie had lied: Charlie wanted to spend time talking with his friends more than he wanted to spend time doing something for Don. And because Charlie had been doing almost everything for Don since he had come home, he wondered what else Charlie would refuse to do for him when his friend came over and was actually in the house, not just on the phone.

The discomforting feeling that had earlier afflicted Don's stomach returned in full force. Angry that he hadn't been able to get Charlie to stop talking to his friend, and that he had been lied to, Don sank into the couch and sulked, sucking his now band-aide-free right thumb while he silently complained to Buddy about Charlie's stupid friends.

Charlie hung up the phone and turned to his brother. "Don, we need to talk about this belt situation." Charlie could tell that he was still upset about his nightmares and he wanted to see if he could help him understand they weren't real. But to Charlie's surprise, Don ignored his offer of comfort; instead, he turned away from him morosely.

Don was beginning to wonder if Charlie had lied to him about other things, like always being there for him. He thought about Mommy, and how she never ignored him when he lived with her. _She_ didn't have any friends that came by and took her from him. He deliberately ignored the fact that Mommy also hit him, that he didn't feel safe with her, and that Charlie had to protect him from her just the night before. Feeling sorry for himself, Don began a whole litany of complaints, trying to justify his point of view. Charlie was mean to talk to his friends instead of feeding him. What if he had choked? And how could he do his activities if Charlie was busy with his friend? He couldn't do them alone.When Charlie's friend came over, Charlie probably planned to leave him all alone so they could do things together; the Badman was sure to get him, and then Charlie would be sorry. It made Don feel better to think how guilty Charlie would be if he got hurt or someone took him, especially because it would be all Charlie's fault- and his friends' fault, too- _his stupid, stupid friends_ he told Buddy over and over again.

Oh, boy, Charlie thought. He could see that Don's temperament pendulum was in full swing towards moody. While he began pondering the problem, Alan called to him from the front door. "Charlie, Larry's here. And I'm leaving- come lock the front door."

"I'll be right back, Don." Charlie tried to rub his shoulder, but Don pulled it away from him, then pointedly rose from the couch and shuffled into the solarium, shoulders hunched.

Charlie was running his hand through his hair when he got to the front door.

"Something wrong, Charles?" Larry was in the entryway, waiting with Alan. The scientist had years of experience in observing Charlie's gestures and had long ago deciphered that any one of them having to do with his hair meant either puzzle-solving or puzzlement. In this case, Larry correctly guessed puzzlement.

Charlie smiled. Hearing his friend call him by his proper name always felt like a warm and secure hug.

"Yes," he answered, relieved to have Larry there to help; seeing his father's worried expression, Charlie added, "But nothing I can't handle." He looked at his watch and told a hesitant Alan, "You better leave. If you wait much longer, you'll be leaving the house at about the same time you're returning from the court." When Larry attempted to explain why that particular event could actually happen if one took into consideration alternate planes of reality, Alan decided it really was time for him to leave, and exited, waiting on the front porch until he heard Charlie lock the door behind him.

Once they heard Alan pull away from the house, Larry asked, "Now, where is your nonpareil brother?"

"He went into the solarium." Charlie sighed.

"Am I to assume that he is the cause of your intense perturbation?"

"Yes, your assumption is correct. He had several nightmares last night and is still upset about them. I've been trying to convince him that they weren't real." Charlie sat at the dining room table, joined by Larry. "But I also think he wasn't happy that I talked on the phone with Amita this morning. I'm the one who fed him yesterday and because I talked to her, my dad had to feed him today. Dr. Wang told us he needs to have a certain amount of consistencies in his routine, and he's had so many changes over the last five days, I think that not feeding him was one too many. Now, he seems angry at me."

"It has never been easy for you when Don's anger has swerved your way. After all the descriptions of how you and Don have bonded over the past few days, I can understand why his anger would now be more thorough in its bruising effects."

"I guess that's true." Charlie stood up, taking a deep breath of air. "But I don't think I'll persuade him to forgive me by sitting here and worrying about how it makes me feel. Come with me. I'm going to apologize and see if it does any good. If not, we'll see if we can at least convince him to meet you. We're hoping that seeing another familiar face might jog a few memories."

As they walked to the solarium, Charlie proudly started describing Don's therapy. "I want to show you everything we've been working on. Yesterday was only his first day of home therapy, but you should have seen how hard he worked on his gripping and speech exercises. If we can keep up a rate that's even half as stringent, I know he'll be better long before his doctors predict."

Larry spidered his fingers across his chin, tapping it, "I'm sure you are correct in your projections, Charles; but don't forget that humans aren't stable equations. They and their behaviors are comprised of irresolute variables that have to be taken into consideration as they appear, which can be frequent and unpredictably."

"I know," Charlie said, leading Larry to the solarium, walking backwards as he talked. "But everything is comprised of numbers, and I think that I have found the set that comprises Don's rehabilitation. Even if I take unknown variables into consideration when computing the time it will take to complete it, Don's progressive rate will still be twice that of his doctors' prognoses."

"But how do you insert variables that you do not even know exist?" Larry inquired.

"Well," Charlie ran a hand through his hair, dropping his head to his chin while he stood at the entrance to the solarium, his back to the room. "I think my algorithm covers all reasonable deviations, that's how."

"Hmmmm," Larry murmured under his breath, "does your algorithm cover this deviation?" He was looking past Charlie into the solarium.

Charlie turned around and followed Larry's eyes, which were fixated on the couch.

An empty couch.

A little bout of panic shaping his actions, Charlie strode to the garage door and pulled. It was still locked tight. Acting quickly, he went back into the living room, running his eyes over the small space, wondering how Don could have gotten by them. They had been standing in the front doorway, so they would have seen him if he attempted to walk past. Suddenly, Charlie's eyes fell on the juncture where the floor and wall met, next to the couch and below a rustling curtain. Two sneakers moved back and forth in a nervous rhythm.

Bending over, his elbows to his knees, Charlie took two deep breaths to calm down.

Larry stood next to Charlie. "Is he hiding from me?"

Unbending, Charlie responded, "Probably, but we thought this might happen," he took another deep breath, "so it _was_ a predicted deviation."

"Ahhh, you must have momentarily forgotten that."

Charlie grunted noncommittally. Relieved, he approached his hiding brother and tenderly said, "Don, I know one of the reasons you're hiding is because you're unhappy that I talked on the phone today and didn't feed you. I'm sorry I changed your routine. Won't you forgive me and come meet our friend Larry."

Don stayed still. _I don't need any friends,_ he thought bitterly, _and if you do, then I don't need you, either._

Receiving no response, Charlie beckoned Larry to the dining room.

"I think you better stay here, Larry. He must really be upset if he won't even talk to me. There're some binders on the buffet. The one at the end contains the work I've done so far in trying to determine the initial cause of Don's brain trauma. Can you review it for me? I'm not sure if my approach is the most conducive in solving the problem."

"My pleasure to help, Charles." Larry took the indicated binder and sat at the head of the table, his back to the living room. "Now, let me take a look." Larry quickly lost himself in the research, here and there uttering quiet exclamations as positive but pondering remarks upon Charlie's work.

Charlie left the dining room and approached Don once again. Fifteen minutes later, Charlie sat down next to Larry, disappointment marring his face. "I tried apologizing, but he didn't say anything. I can't get him to come out. He always hides when he's afraid of a new situation or person. Only, he's met so many new people over the last few days, I thought it would be easier for him to meet you."

"It's alright, Charles," Larry said gently. "Don't feel obligated to propel your brother to perform actions that may further agitate his condition. My sensitivities will not be adversely affected by his lack of interest in meeting me."

"Maybe so, but I don't understand why he's afraid of you. None of the other people he's met have been half as pleasant-looking as you."

"Charles," Larry stated matter-of-factly, "Don's standards for pleasant may not match your own. Besides, his behavior is at it should be; all creatures of distinction tend to fey from intrusions into their environments as a defense against harm."

Sitting sideways in his chair and rocking back and forth, Charlie's eyes stayed on the curtain in the living room. "I don't know, Larry. He's not crying or shaking like he usually does when he's afraid, so I think something else is wrong, only he won't tell me. But if on the off chance that he is refusing to come out because he's afraid, and I can't get him to come out, you'll have to leave. I'm sorry, but even though I could use your opinion on my work, I can't just let him stay behind that curtain all day. He needs to get started on his therapy."

Larry tapped the binder in front of him. "Oh, dear, I hadn't thought of that. Hmmmm. If you think that fear is not the cause of his behavior, than maybe the allurement you are extending is simply inadequate in trying to coax him to come forth. Do you have any other enticement at hand?"

"Actually, it's time for his tongue exercises, and he loves cherry popsicles- I can try to lure him out with those."

Charlie went to the kitchen and returned with a Popsicle. He walked into the living room and loudly tore the wrapper from the frozen treat, satisfied when two brown eyes peaked at him from behind the curtain. Since Charlie was sure that Don was not afraid of Larry, but was refusing to come out because of his anger at him, he stepped back into the dining room, hoping Don would do the same and sit at the table with them. He trusted that doing the tongue exercises would help Don relax and he could talk to him again about his nightmares, try to assure him he was safe.

Don watched Charlie. He didn't want to go meet his _Larry_, but the cherry Popsicles tasted so good, especially after drinking supplements for two months, that they were hard to resist. From the moment he had heard Charlie's friend was there, Don had hidden behind the curtain. At first, it was because he was afraid. When Larry had walked by, though, it was easy for him to see that the diminutive man was no threat. Don had also heard Charlie bragging about him and he had almost forgiven his brother. Then Charlie and Larry had come back into the living room, and Don listened to how their voices sounded when they talked to each other. It was obvious to him that there was a lot of affection between them, which angered him, and he remembered once again how Charlie had ignored him that morning and lied, all because he wanted to spend more time with his friend. Don's stubbornness dug in and he refused to forgive Charlie, hating it when his brother and _Larry _went into the dining room to sit together, like Charlie was supposed to do with him that morning, but didn't do. But he had time to sit with _Larry._

When Charlie had come back and apologized a second time, Don ignored him. Charlie hadn't even said he was sorry about lying. And because Charlie didn't look for the belt and didn't know it was gone, there was no way for him to get it back. Don knew Mommy was going to come back that night and hit him, maybe harder than ever, all because Charlie cared more about his friends than he did about him.

Pitying himself, Don hadn't wanted to do what Charlie said and that included doing his exercises; he had originally planned on ignoring Charlie all day, to let him see how it felt. But when he saw Charlie walk into the dining room, he came from behind the curtain, uncertain about what to do, trying to decide if he really wanted the treat more than he wanted to be angry at his brother. But then Charlie acted as if he was going to eat the Popsicle, putting it in front of his mouth, and Don decided he was punishing himself more than Charlie if he didn't do his tongue exercises. Besides, he reasoned, he could still be mad even if he did do them.

Charlie watched as Don rambled into the room and then sat at the table with his tongue already out and moving before his bottom had touched the seat. As Don began to lick the Popsicle, he flopped Buddy down on the table. Charlie held the Popsicle in his right hand, his arm angled up from the table and his elbow resting on it.

"Remember, tongue only Don," Charlie directed. "Up and down, side to side- it has already started to melt, so you better start at the bottom." He smiled when Don did as he was told. Behind him, Larry did not bat an eye at Don's behavior, but continued to peruse the binder in front of him.

Charlie looked at Larry and smiled proudly, pleased that the Popsicle had worked in bringing Don out of hiding. He was also glad that Don appeared to be handling Larry's presence well, as he noted his usual shaking and crying continued to be absent. Charlie hoped this would be a first step in Don forgiving him about changing his routine that morning. It was apparent that his brother was still upset.

Charlie wanted the rest of the day to go well. The main reason he had, of course, was because he hated to see Don unhappy and feeling unsafe in his own home. But Charlie also had a personal reason for wanting the day to be successful. He wanted Larry to see how good he was at taking care of Don. Larry knew how Charlie had hidden in the garage while his mother was sick and dying. Charlie wanted Larry to see that he had changed from that person, had grown up and forward, was not so scared by people and relationships that _all_ he could see were numbers when problems arose. He was aware that Larry had observed some of this growth after he had started helping Don work his cases. But, to Charlie, this was different. Because taking care of Don was personal, almost on a level akin to taking care of his mother. It was important to Charlie for Larry to know that he had become the essential opposite of the person he was before, that he had become like Don had described him the previous night- brave.

Turning back to Don, Charlie introduced Larry. "This is a good friend of ours. His name is Larry."

Larry smiled and softly said hello. Don glanced at him briefly. He's not _my_ friend, he thought. Then Don set his eyes back onto the Popsicle, licking his lips first, and then the treat.

Charlie talked to Don, quietly telling him what a good job he was doing. Behind him, Larry made a small exclamation. Tilting his head towards his friend , Charlie asked, "What do you think?"

"I think that I'm not surprised they are having difficulty in finding a point of origin."

"I know. I would have never guessed that there were so many variables in determining a brain injury, and so many different solutions, even when the combination of variables remains the same. If the same is true for all severe damage to the human body, how can a doctor be sure what route to take in any medical situation, especially when he doesn't know his starting position?"

"Well, Charles, I do believe that is why they sagely opine that a doctor is practicing the _art_ of medicine. And as with all skilled artisans, they must rely on their natural talents and penetrating senses to supplement their knowledge and extensive training."

"You mean they have to go with their gut feelings sometimes."

"Yeah, eh," Larry bobbed his head side to side, "that would be an accurate interpretation of my thoughts."

"So, what does your"- Charlie stopped mid-sentence. He felt a weight on his hand that was making it slowly drop to the table. Turning his attention to Don, he saw his brother had put his mouth over the Popsicle and was sucking on it, his head too heavy for Charlie's hand to hold up. "Don." Two doe-like eyes looked up at him. "Tongue only." Slowly, Don pulled his mouth from around the Popsicle and began to lick it with his tongue again, up and down, side to side. Charlie watched, telling Don he was doing a great job.

Then Larry asked a question and Charlie turned his face towards him again.

"All of these effects from the trauma- you're giving them weights that are of equal value?"

"Yes, because they are all just as likely no matter the initial cause."

"But surely some occur more often, even if their likelihood of occurrence is the same. Could you rework their values to take into consideration how often they actually occur, not just their possibility of occurring?" Larry flipped a page and held the binder out for Charlie to see.

Charlie was just about to take the binder when his right hand was weighted to the table again. Shifting in his seat, Charlie looked at Don, who had his mouth over the top half of the Popsicle once more, making loud sucking noises. Charlie lowered his chin till it rested on the upper portion of his extended arm, and so that his face was level with Don's.

Don became conscious of Charlie's disapproving presence, and slowly raised his eyes, locking them onto his brother's eyes mere inches away, but he continued to suck on the Popsicle.

"Don," Charlie used the sternest teacher's voice he had ever possessed, "tongue only. You don't need to practice sucking things."

When Don ignored him and kept sucking, his eyes now staring obstinately, Charlie decided to forego his plans to work with Larry; it was obvious that Don was still upset and needed his full attention. Switching hands so that his left was holding the Popsicle, Charlie reached out with his right hand and patted Don on the back. "Come on, Don. Don't you want to earn some stars?"

At the question, Don's eyes flitted to Larry and back again to Charlie. Don was not happy that Charlie's friend was sitting with them. He didn't even want him in the house. And, he thought, why should he listen to Charlie? Hadn't he tried to talk to Charlie that morning, and hadn't Charlie just ignored him?

His eyes continuing to be on Charlie's, Don began to slowly lift his head, allowing the Popsicle to start a languid slide from his mouth, as if he was going to return to his exercises. But before the cold treat left his mouth, more than an inch from the top, Don bent his head down; then he proceeded to pull his head into an upright position, his mouth no longer covering the Popsicle and his lips shut tight.

His chin still resting on his arm, Charlie stared at the Popsicle directly in front of him. Or rather, he stared at the remains of it. Don had managed to break off the top fourth of the Popsicle when he bent his head, a clear act of defiance.

It took a moment, but then Charlie realized the _top of the Popsicle was in Don's_ _mouth_, so he hurriedly began to massage Don's throat, fearing he would try to swallow it all at once. To his relief, it became apparent from the twitching movement of Don's lips that he was allowing the Popsicle to melt before swallowing the liquid.

Charlie wondered at his brother's anger towards him. Surely he couldn't still be that upset about the change in his daily routine? Like he had told Larry, he knew that Don had been forced into a lot of new situations after returning home, and had been forced to meet many new people- some of them not even friendly. Yet he had never reacted with anger. Charlie fleetingly wondered if Don _was_ afraid of Larry, and had wanted the Popsicle so badly he was willing to come out of hiding despite that fear; but then, he again noted that Don hadn't cried or shivered, so he had a hard time believing that Larry was the root of the problem.

Besides, Charlie thought, Don was already upset before Larry came over. He felt Don's nightmares had to be the major cause of his anger. After all, Don had nodded when Charlie asked him if he was upset about them. It was clear that they had affected Don so much that he continued to be anxious about them. Maybe, Charlie thought, Don was mad at him for not keeping Thompson away. He seemed to rely on him for so much, Charlie reasoned, it might be hard for him to accept that he couldn't keep Thompson from attacking him in his dreams; which had, he thought ruefully, prevented any of them from getting a decent night's sleep. Charlie decided that the change in routine, along with the combination of the nightmares and the lack of a decent night's sleep, were the reasons for Don's anger towards him.

Feeling bad for the change in routine and for having talked to Amita, Charlie tried to make amends to Don. "Well, you tried, so I'm going to give you a star anyway, does that sound good?"

But Don refused to respond.

Charlie could sense Don's mood was stuck in its current position. He took the remains of the Popsicle to the kitchen, coming back to the dining room with two wipes, one to clean the table and one to clean Don's fingers and face. When Charlie finished, he sat next to Don and apologized for not feeding him that morning. Don sucked his thumb and listened to what Charlie had to say, but he stubbornly refused to respond to his brother, angry that Charlie had turned away from him while he did his exercises, ones he hadn't really wanted to do in the first place.

Getting no response from Don, Charlie decided it was best that they spend some time alone. He said, "Let's go in the solarium and practice your gripping exercises. Would you mind staying here, Larry, and continue to review my notes?"

"Of course, Charles. Do not let my presence prevent you from attending to Don." With that, the professor took out a pencil and began making notes in the margin of the page before him.

Don reluctantly followed Charlie into the solarium. He sank into the couch, his eyes droopy.

Charlie sat near Don, trying to get him to play with the gripping clay. He tried to sound excited like Jim, talked about soldiers, gave positive verbal reinforcement, and kept patting Don on the arm. But nothing seemed to work. Offering Don other activities, Charlie was disappointed when Don sank further into the the couch, refusing to look at him and half-heartedly playing with Buddy.

As the morning wore on, Charlie refused to give up. He continually attempted to get Don to do just _one_ therapeutic activity, but he failed every time. Larry spent the morning unobtrusively sitting in the dining room, making notes and conjectures about Charlie's work thus far.

When it was lunch time, Charlie sighed. "Don, I don't know what else to do. I've apologized for this morning. I can't go back in time and change things. And if you're still anxious about your nightmares, you need to talk to me about them. Things won't get better if you refuse to talk to me." Greeted with silence, Charlie decided to take a different route. He informed Don, "Okay, if you want to sulk, that's your choice. But remember, if you keep this stubborn behavior up, not only will you not earn enough stars to play baseball this Saturday, you won't even have enough stars for a sucker today. I hope you think about that, because I thought we were going to have a lot of fun at the park."

Charlie left behind a suddenly interested Don.

He had forgotten about baseball and the park. Before they started his therapy the previous day, Charlie had promised that if he earned fifty stars, they would get to go. Don hadn't been thinking about it, because he had already earned twenty stars, and had thought he was going to easily earn the rest. But Charlie was right. He had to earn a lot more stars to go to the park, and he had only earned one today; chances were he wasn't going to get to go.

Don had also forgotten about his sucker. He stared across the room at the jar sitting invitingly on the table. He shoved his thumb deep into his mouth, angry that he wasn't going to get one. If the Popsicles tasted good, the suckers were even better. They lasted longer and tasted sweeter, better than anything else he got to eat, even the food Daddy made for him. But he was really angry because he didn't think it was his fault he wasn't going to get one. Don reasoned it was Charlie's fault; if his brother hadn't ignored him and _made_ him angry, Don never would have had to treat him so badly.

A part of Don acknowledged he had been mistreating his brother, something he really didn't deserve. He knew Charlie had done many things for him, and he was amazed at his ability to chase away the bad things in his dreams. Though he knew it was wrong to behave that way, Don couldn't help it. He didn't want Charlie to have his friend over, he didn't like being lied to, and most of all, he didn't want to share his brother.

As he passed through the dining room, Charlie told Larry he had to make lunch. He didn't bother to ask Larry if he would want something to eat that was different from what he was preparing for Don and himself; Charlie knew his friend well enough to know that Larry wouldn't want Charlie to take the extra time to do so, and would be grateful to be offered the bland ground food, to boot.

"Can you kinda keep an eye on Don?" Charlie asked as he stood in the doorway to the kitchen, "Dad doesn't like me to leave him alone too long. I'm sure he's not afraid of you, so if you can handle him giving you the brush-off, I think it should be okay. But if he starts crying or anything else that indicates he's anxious, _come get me_."

"Unfortunately, I have an extensive history of handling brush-offs," Larry lamented. He was pleased to see Charlie grin for the first time in hours.

Larry approached the solarium cautiously. As Charlie had given him a thorough overview of Don's condition, Larry was perplexed by Don's behavior, too. He shyly walked into the room, taking tiny steps with a watchful eye on Don's reaction, only proceeding forward when he did not detect any tears or shaking. The gentle professor would have broken down himself if he thought he caused so much as a mist to appear in the corner of his friend's eye.

Though his progression had been slow, Larry did make it to the recliner and sat down, pulling to the back of the chair, his feet not quite reaching the floor. He chanced a look in Don's direction and noticed he was staring at the table.

"Uh, hem," Larry cleared his throat. Don glanced at him and then back at the table.

Though nonjudgmental about Don, Larry felt a lump in his throat as he watched him suck his thumb and pet Buddy. He knew that uniqueness was an exhilarating aspect of being a human being, but that God, the mind, and nature should be responsible for individualizing characteristics in each and every person. He was sadly convinced that he was witnessing the desecration of the universe and its laws, as he knew that God, Don, and nature had nothing to do with the childlike expressions that the man before him was exhibiting now.

Larry slipped out of the recliner and tentatively stood next to the table. "Did you want something from here?" he asked. He picked up a book and showed Don its cover.

Don swallowed. Guardedly taking his thumb from his mouth, he slowly shook his head.

Relieved that he hadn't frightened Don, Larry picked up a video game.

Don shook his head again. Then he moved his head with deliberate motion, settling his eyes on a specific object.

Larry saw where Don's eyes had landed and picked up the jar full of suckers. "Would you like one of these?"

Don hesitated. He looked past Larry to see if Charlie was coming. One part of him knew he didn't deserve the sucker, but the stronger stubborn part was more certain it wasn't his fault that he wouldn't be able to earn one.

Don nodded to Larry.

Effectively duped, Larry opened the jar and pulled them out one by one, until Don nodded at a red one. When Larry offered Don the sucker, Don held out his right hand. Larry put it on his fingers and stepped back, pleased that he had been able to communicate with Don and maybe entreat him from his shell. He left the jar of suckers opened on the table, in case Don wanted another one when he finished his first.

Unbeknownst to Larry, Charlie stepped into the room behind him.

"What are you doing?" Charlie demanded.

Larry jumped. "Why Charles, I wasn't cognizant of your approach." Smiling, he noted, "I think your brother's ready to do more tongue exercises."

Charlie wasn't looking at Larry. He had been talking to Don, who smugly sat on the couch, eating his sucker. Charlie ran both his hands through his hair. "Larry," he said through gritted teeth, "he only gets a sucker when he has earned ten stars. So far, he has only earned one, and he really didn't deserve it."

"Oh, I do apologize, Charles," Larry replied, embarrassed.

Charlie blew a stream of air through his nostrils. After the long unproductive morning, Charlie was finally becoming frustrated. He stepped to the couch and stood over Don. "I don't know what to do about your attitude, but I'm afraid I do know what I have to do about this behavior." Charlie carefully pulled Don's hand from his mouth and twisted the sucker from his fingers. Then he tossed the candy into the garbage. "If you're hungry, I have lunch ready. If you want a _sucker_, you have to do your exercises."

Larry was a scientist, and so he was very observant. And fortunately, he had an extensive history of experiences in dealing with the Eppes brothers. He recognized a showdown between the two when he saw one.

"Excuse me," he said quietly, and then he politely removed himself from the room, deciding that lunch sounded much better than standing in the line of fire.

Don glared at Charlie. He knew he shouldn't have taken the sucker, but Larry had given it to him. Why wasn't Charlie mad at _Larry_? Feeling unfairly treated, Don got up from the couch and went to the table, audaciously trying to get another sucker from the jar.

Charlie wasn't mad at Don. He was frustrated; not with his brother, but with the situation and his inability to make it better. Since he and Don had bonded, it seemed that no matter what happened he had been able to fix things. And now, Charlie couldn't make things better for Don, because he didn't even know what was wrong. Charlie had tried saying sorry for everything he had thought he'd done wrong that day, but Don kept refusing to accept his apologies.

But when Don tried to get another sucker, Charlie decided that no matter what the problem was, no matter what he had done wrong, his brother's obstinate behavior was only aggravating the situation and was unacceptable. Charlie walked over to Don and removed his hand from the jar of suckers. He then put the lid back on, tightened it and put the jar in the garage, shutting the door behind him.

"Look, if you really want a sucker," Charlie tried again, having given up on lunch for the time being. "I'll give you one if you do _five _exercises for me. That's half as many as you're supposed to do." He walked over to Don, who stood next to the table, the picture of insolence. Charlie picked up the gripping clay. "Come on, let's try this again. You liked it yesterday."

Though Don was limited in his capacity to make adult decisions, his stubbornness was so ingrained in him that it granted him the ability to behave at odds to the desires of those around him; to do so was not an actual decision on his part, but more a natural, unbidden method of expressing displeasure at a situation. At the Bureau, people would say he had a temper. While he was in his current condition, people would say he was _throwing _a temper.

In either case, the results of this expressive behavior were never productive.

Don took his left finger and knocked one container of clay to the ground. Go have _Larry _squeeze it, he thought. When Charlie bent to pick it up, Don knocked another container to the floor.

"Stop that," Charlie ordered, then covered his head as another container fell over the edge, bopping him in the head. He leapt back, straightening. "Don, this is getting ridiculous. Can't you just tell me what's wrong?"

Don answered by knocking a book off the table. Go ask your _Larry_, Don thought, and pushed a stack of puzzles to the ground. Charlie dodged around Don reaching for them, but he was too slow. Several hundred pieces scattered on the floor. Charlie had dropped to his knees and was trying to separate them, get them back in their boxes, when Don sent two video games heading his way. Charlie backed away from the table, resignedly sitting on the couch, deciding it would be best to allow Don to let off the steam.

But when Don moved around the corner of the table, he tripped on some loose puzzle pieces and fell to one knee. Charlie jumped up, grabbing Don's upper arm. "Come on, Don. You better stop. You're going to hurt yourself."

Don scowled at Charlie. He stood back up and knocked another book to the ground. Charlie was no longer concerned about Don's mood; he was now worried that he was going to hurt himself. Charlie tried to hold Don still, but he realized that when Don wasn't being compliant, or lying on the bed so he could put his weight on him, it was impossible for him to physically stop him, as Charlie was not as strong and was much smaller.

When Don tripped a second time, Charlie was transformed from a concerned brother with no control over his big brother to a professional teacher who assessed the inappropriate behavior with a skilled eye, and so he reacted as he would have with any other unruly student.

That is, if Charlie was teaching first graders.


	42. How I Misunderstood You

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs and the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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Larry placed three dishes into the oven. He hoped the food would still be warm when Charlie and Don settled their differences. A knock at the back door caught his attention. He unlocked it after peering through the window to see who was there.

"Welcome home, Alan." Larry held the door for him. He did not ask Alan about the restraining order, thinking it impolite to do so. Besides, he inferred from the slight twitch of Alan's left eye that things had not gone as hoped.

"Thanks, Larry." Alan immediately inquired after Don. "How did things go with him? He's not afraid of you, is he? Is that why you're hiding out in the kitchen?" Alan noticed Larry had the remains of a plate of food on the counter in front of him, along with a glass of water.

"Oh, no. Your eldest has not exhibited any of the behaviors that would indicate he was afraid of me."

"Good," Alan replied.

"However, his other behaviors have been less than satisfactory in convincing me that he is approving of my presence." Larry leaned against the counter. "Charles has yet to identify the root of that particular problem, but I have my suspicions. I think he is attempting to find the solution on his own at this time."

"Really," Alan asked, "And how is he doing that?"

"I'm not sure. I must confess my own lack of comfort in being between them when they argue."

Alan frowned. "You can't be talking about Charlie and Don. Since Don has come home they've been closer than I've ever seen them; actually, they're closer than I am with either one of them- it makes me envious sometimes."

"I think I am improperly describing their emotions as an action. When I last saw them, they both had stubborn expressions on their faces. However, from what I overheard as I made a hasty but prudent retreat, I must say that anger was not apparent in Charles' articulations to Don. Rather, Charles sounded calm and loving, like he had overcome his natural inclination to espouse loud verbiage toward his brother when he is frustrated with him."

"That sounds more like the Charlie I've come to know over the past week. If they _are _having some difficulty, it must be because Don is still upset over the nightmares he had last night. Charlie wouldn't risk hurting Don by arguing about something that is bothering _him_; he hasn't thought about himself for months. As a matter of fact, if I hadn't insisted he talk to Amita today, I think he would have hung up on her."

"Well, I think that my presence has also had an effect on Don's behavior, but I did not want to intrude my thinking upon the situation. Charles seems so proud of his relationship with Don that I was afraid if I proposed there is a negative aspect to it, he might reprimand himself for something in which he has no true blame."

"Let me see what's going on." Alan headed out of the kitchen, Larry trailing. "Are they in the solarium?"

"That's where I left them." When they got there, Larry nervously stood at the entry to the room, while Alan stepped in.

Charlie sat on the couch, cross-legged, his head down as he rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. Alan could not see Don anywhere, but noticed his recliner was turned in toward the far corner of the room; it took a couple minutes for him to realize why.

Alan strode to the couch and stood over Charlie, just as his youngest son had stood over Don, less than twenty minutes before.

"Charlie, your brother is too old to be put in timeout."

"I know, I know." Charlie flattened his palms against his face and dragged down. He dropped his hands to his lap, staring ahead. "I didn't know what else to do. He wouldn't listen to me, and he kept knocking everything around." Charlie waved a hand towards the cardboard table, which Alan saw was a mess, everything dumped into a pile at its center. "He threw all that stuff on the ground and tripped over it twice, but he still wouldn't stop. I was afraid he would fall and hurt his head."

Alan took a seat next to Charlie. He put an arm around his disheartened son and grinned, "So, how long is he in for?"

Thinking his father was serious, Charlie guiltily replied. "I don't know. I didn't think to tell him how long. I just wanted some time to think."

There was a subtle sound of movement from the other side of the recliner. They both sat up straight, Alan pulling his arm from around his son and Charlie dropping his feet to the ground. Their eyes remained on the recliner as they quietly talked.

"Charlie, Larry has indicated that your brother has been behaving a little different today. I know he seemed out of sorts this morning- his mood hasn't changed since then?"

"No, it hasn't." Charlie leaned back. "Don hid from Larry, but only for a little bit. I thought he was fine when he sat with us at the dining room table and I gave him a Popsicle; but then he wouldn't do his tongue exercises. He kept sucking on the Popsicle instead."

They were interrupted by a loud creaking noise. Charlie and Alan fell silent, staring curiously at the back of the recliner. To their surprise, Don poked his head around the side of the chair. Evidently, he had been listening to their conversation. With his eyes scrunched shut, Don stuck his tongue out, moving it up and down and side to side. When Don felt he had gotten his message across, he opened his eyes and impudently asked, "There…. happy now?" But then he saw the authoritative frown weighing his brother's face, one that told him he better behave; his head quickly disappeared and he began to properly sit in his seat once again.

Charlie couldn't believe that the same person who had called him brave the night before, and had clung to him in order to sleep, had just behaved so insolently towards him. He turned to Alan for support, but was vexed to see his father had a hand over his mouth, stifling a laugh. Charlie whispered harshly, "Quit encouraging him. He's been acting like that all day." Seeking support from his best friend, Charlie looked to Larry; but he was disappointed to see Larry smiling, his mirth apparent from the twinkling of his eyes.

Charlie sank back into the couch. He had just decided on a snappy remark about the traitorous behavior of his father and friend, when the sound of Don's voice suddenly floated across the room. All three men bent forward as they strained to hear what Don was softly saying, but they could only make out some stilted mutterings, peppered here and there with several words that could be distinctly heard: stupid…mean…bossy…liar.

It was clear that Don was talking to Buddy, and that the person he was complaining about was Charlie.

Demoralized, Charlie pushed off the couch and began to shuffle from the room, deciding to let his father take care of Don for the rest of the day. He was stopped by a strong hand on his arm.

"Charlie, I'm sorry. It sounds like you've had a very hard morning." Alan put his arm across Charlie's back, squeezing him reassuringly.

"You don't know the half of it." Charlie said dismally as he allowed his father to comfort him.

"Let's go in the other room and talk about it. I think your brother will be fine right where he is." Alan raised his voice and told Don, "We will be right back. Don't you move a single inch." Then he, Charlie and Larry went into the living room, sitting on the couch. "Okay, tell me everything that happened."

Charlie released his pent up frustration, detailing every thing that had gone wrong since Alan had left for court that morning, punctuating his grievances with waving hands, a shaking head, and distorted grimaces of his face. When he finished, Charlie tried to reason out his brother's behavior.

"I'm sure he's upset about the change in routine," Charlie stated, "but I don't think it accounts for all of his behavior. I would say that he has been affected by Larry's presence, but he hasn't cried or shown any signs of fear, so I don't think that he is the direct cause of Don's behavior change. Then there are the nightmares- they were still on his mind this morning, because he told me so."

"I don't know, Charles," Larry hummed. "I think the most distinctive alteration to Don's environment today had to be my appearance. If we are looking for the reagent that was added to Don's environment and produced his change in behavior, I believe that would definitely have to be me."

"I have to agree and disagree," Charlie rose from the couch and began to walk back and forth, "it obviously has _something _to do with you, but his mood was already affected before your arrival, Larry, so your presence may be distinct, but I still believe that it is not necessarily the direct cause of Don's behavior." Charlie stopped. With Larry available as his sparring partner for the first time in a long time, Charlie fell into his old routine of applying mathematical solutions to human problems. "Do you think we should quantify all the different occurrences that I listed today, narrow down which one is most likely"-

Alarmed when he saw Larry tent his fingers, Alan broke in. "Before we start the math, can we maybe look at previously gathered data."

Charlie frowned at his father. "Are you talking about how he has been behaving the last few days, Dad? If so, then we would need an entirely different set of variables."

Larry exchanged a knowing look with Alan. "If I am correct, Charles, I think your father is taking about data that is on a more empirical level than analytical."

Alan smiled, gratified that Larry was doing what he did best- helping Charlie put aside his numbers worldview and try to look at things from a more human point of view. It was an action Charlie had been performing surprisingly well on his own for several months, but faced with a particularly tough problem, he could not help but try to look for the answer through the subject he knew best.

"Yes, Larry, I'm talking about personal experience." Alan patted the seat next to him on the couch. Charlie sat down, confused.

"Charlie, when you were little, how did you feel when Donny went to ballgames without you?" Alan gently asked.

"I don't know. Not too happy, I guess."

"Did he ever notice that you were unhappy?"

Charlie stared at his hands. It was hard to think about that time in his life, when Don could be so mean to him and callous about his feelings. He hoped his Dad wasn't saying that he was acting the same way. Charlie believed he had been trying his best to do what he could to keep Don happy, and if his father said he had been treating Don the same way today, Charlie could calculate the exact number of pieces his heart would break into.

"Not really. But I haven't been treating Don that way?" Doubt seeped into his voice. "I was aware of his disappointment this morning in our change of routine, and that's why I kept apologizing."

"No, Charlie, you haven't been treating Donny _exactly _the same way. You have been in tune with Donny's feelings ever since he came home, and have treated him better than I've ever seen anyone be treated before. And that might be the root of his problem. You haven't been mean to him, or ignorant of his feelings. You just haven't been able to give a name to the problem he is having, so you can't help him solve it. Charlie, your brother is _jealous_."

"That's not possible." Charlie shook his head in denial.

Alan sighed. He had to have the most self-deprecating genius of a son in the world. Of course Charlie would have a difficult time believing his brother could be jealous. Charlie had spent his entire life running after an older brother who in turn had spent most of _his_ life running from his younger one; the few times that Don had taken the time to stay still, and throw his younger brother a bone of attention, Charlie had jealousy guarded that limited time with him, trying to keep others away. And even though Don had been clinging to Charlie, and begging him to care for him, Charlie would not view the behavior as an indication that Don was grateful to have Charlie. Instead, he would view it as another opportunity to have access to Don; and for that, Charlie would firmly believe that he was the one who should feel grateful.

No, it would never cross Charlie's mind that Don was now the one who didn't want to share his brother. Charlie would more easily believe Don was angry for the change in routine or the stress from his nightmares than he would believe that his brother was jealous.

As the problem was also apparent to Larry, Alan wistfully thought that it would have been nice if he had explained it to Charlie earlier. But Alan also understood his reluctance to interfere. Don and Charlie's relationship had always been precarious, and Larry obviously didn't want to dampen Charlie's spirits by indicating there might be a problem with their solid relationship now.

"Charlie, when we changed Donny's routine the past two days, we did it for _him_. And you were with him through it all. When we changed it today, we did it for _you_, so you could spend time with somebody else, specifically Amita, and he must have decided he didn't like you giving any of your attention to her. He didn't want to share you."

"But I apologized," Charlie was unsure about everything his father was saying to him, "Why hasn't he forgiven me?"

"Uh, hum."

Alan and Charlie looked at Larry. "Now do you understand, Charles," the scientist stated with dismay, "I _am_ the reagent responsible for his behavior change."

Charlie began pacing again. "But we spent time with lots of other people on Monday. I don't understand why he would be jealous of me spending time with you."

"Because, Charlie," Alan continued to explain. "You weren't spending time with different people- Don was; on the contrary, you were doing what you have always done, waiting patiently in the wings for the opportunity to have Don to yourself. In a way, your relationship with your brother hasn't changed all that much. And Don is apparently having a hard time adjusting to the fact that you weren't just sitting and waiting for him today, but were busy with Amita and Larry."

Charlie sat down, feeling guilty for not recognizing the reason for Don's outbursts of anger. "I guess that's why he's stayed mad at me. And he probably thought I should know that's how he felt, because I've been able to perceive how he's been feeling every other time he has been sad or frightened or anxious. No wonder he told Buddy I was mean and stupid. He must have thought I was either ignoring the fact that he was feeling insecure or too stupid to recognize it."

"Yes, well, he also called you bossy, so I suppose he didn't like you taking his sucker away and putting him in timeout, either."

Charlie leaned forward, perplexed. "I think you're right, Dad- but, you know, he also said I was a liar. Now why did he call me that? I don't remember breaking any promises to him."

"Huh." Alan nervously rubbed his hands together, just as confused as his son. "I don't know. Did you promise to do something with him today and then change your plans?"

"No, our plans were to do his exercises, just like we did yesterday."

"Well, has he said or done _anything_ that might indicate why he thought you lied?"

Charlie shook his head. "He's been, uh, misbehaving all day, if that's what you want to call it."

Alan stood up and walked to the entryway of the solarium. He checked to make sure Don was okay, and smiled when he saw that his eldest son continued to obey his younger brother by remaining in his seat. _Wish he listened that well the first time I raised him_, Alan couldn't help but think; _maybe I had the wrong son first_. Alan returned to Charlie and their conversation, listening as Larry contributed his thoughts.

"When you say he has been upset all day, do you mean from the time he woke up, or from the time you began his routine- or, rather, when you first began the modifications to his routine?"

Charlie thought for a minute; then he replied, "Actually, he only started acting like he was mad at me when I was on the phone with Amita. Before she called, we had been talking about his nightmares, and how Thompson couldn't hit him with the belt anymore, because I locked it away. He was somewhat anxious talking about them, but he wasn't angry." His eyebrows furrowed, Charlie replayed his conversation with Don in his mind. "At one point, he asked me if the belt was really gone and when I told him yes...you know, he told me he didn't believe me." Confounded, Charlie asked, "Now, why would he suddenly not believe me?"

Alan conjectured, "Don reacted like he was really being hit last night. He probably thinks Thompson couldn't be hitting him if the belt was really no longer in her possession."

"But he _knows _it isn't in her possession; he watched me lock it away and he hasn't seen anyone go near the closet since then."

Charlie and Alan's eyes met. Alan, his throat suddenly dry, hoarsely whispered, "Or has he?"

Two seconds later, Charlie was running up the stairs and into Don's room. He shoved the dresser from in front of the closet and yanked open the door, quickly searching it with his eyes, and then with his hands, shoving old books and sports equipment against the walls, already knowing the lockbox was missing but needing to be one hundred per cent sure.

"Dammit!" Charlie stepped into the living room ten minutes later. "How the hell did she know?"

"It doesn't really matter, Charlie." Alan noted. "For all we know, Don could have told her."

"But now he thinks I'm a liar. How am I going to get him to trust me again?"

Larry quietly offered his opinion, "I would suggest telling Don what actually happened to the belt, and why you were accurate in saying it was gone and he was safe. When he understands that you didn't lie and that it was simply a miscommunication between you two, he won't need to learn to trust you again. Indeed, he will realize that his original trust was never broken."

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Charlie stood behind the recliner, listening as Don occasionally whined to Buddy. He smiled as his brother informed the rabbit that Charlie was a "tattle-tale", remembering that Don often had that same complaint about him when they were younger. But he frowned when he heard Don start to refer to Larry as his "stupid friend", his "mean friend" and that he wished he'd go away, confirmation that Don was jealous of Charlie's relationship with Larry.

Having been jealous of Don's relationships with his friends for thirty years, Charlie knew it was a hard emotion to understand or fight. Charlie reflected that even though he and Don had been working together, and doing after hour's activities whenever they had free time, long before the accident, it had still caused Charlie a certain amount of hurt when he would ask Don to attend a lecture, or accompany him to a conference, or even come over to dinner, and Don would inform him he had other plans. Each time, Charlie had felt little sparks of jealously sizzle on his heart, like he was ten and his brother had rejected him once again, refusing to spare Charlie any of his precious time. This emotional reaction of his hadn't made sense to Charlie, especially because, as an adult, he had good friends and a life of his own; but he knew the emotion didn't have to make sense in order for it to persist.

Since Don had returned from the institute, Charlie thought he had shown him in every possible way that he was the most important person in his life. But maybe his dad was right, that receiving all that attention from Charlie was making it difficult for Don to share him with other people, and making it hard for Don to understand why Charlie would need anyone beyond his family. Charlie also knew that Don had spent two months with Dr. Thompson, with no memories of anyone else in his life and without the ability to care for himself. The woman must have spent all of her time meeting all of Don's needs, and now, in a way, he was spoiled, used to having the undivided attention of his caretaker.

No wonder he was jealous, Charlie thought. Charlie was aware that he himself had also received a similar kind of thorough care from his mother when he was growing up, because he was not a very self-sufficient child. He knew that during those times she had tended to Don, he had felt double the sparks of jealousy- that he had lost his mother's attention while she was taking care of Don, and that his brother was giving her the right to do it.

Charlie wasn't sure if he could express all these thoughts to Don in a way that would make sense. But he knew he had to try to fight the green-eyed monster that was afflicting his brother, especially if he wanted Don to be capable of reestablishing the relationships he'd had with his own friends, which included Larry. He also needed Don to understand that he hadn't lied to him, that Don could still believe him when he made promises, and, most importantly, that Thompson really did not possess the weapon necessary for her to torture him in his dreams.

Sitting on the couch in the solarium, Charlie asked his brother, "Are you ready to talk to me and tell me what's wrong?"

Some mumbled words came from the recliner.

"Come on, Don. I know you're upset that I was talking on the phone this morning. I've already apologized for not taking care of you. And maybe you don't like me spending time with Larry, either. But I have to spend time with my friends. And it won't be long before you'll be spending time with your friends, too. You don't remember, but you have a lot of friends."

Charlie's explanation was greeted with a reception of silence. He decide to reassure Don in the same way that he had when Don was afraid his family no longer wanted him, the day they went to the institute for his tests.

"Just because I talk to other people doesn't mean that you're no longer the most important person in the world to me. You have to know that. No matter who I spend time with, you should know that I will still want to be with you whenever we can. Remember, that's why I gave you my chalk- and _nobody else_. So you can always know I want you, no matter who I am with or where I go."

Muttered words came from behind the recliner. Charlie leaned forward, trying to hear what they were. "What did you say?" he asked Don.

In a louder voice, Don surlily told him, "Keep your chalk." _Why don't you give it to your Larry, _he thought.

Charlie sagged back on the couch and crossed his arms protectively, trying but unable to stop the hurt that the slightest rejection from Don had caused once again. The pain started in the depth of his belly and sneaked its way up to his heart, pinning the organ and constricting it so hard, that without thinking, Charlie faintly exclaimed, "Ow. That hurts."

An inquisitive Don turned around in his seat and sat upon his knees, pulling himself up so that he was peering over the top of the recliner. Charlie didn't look like he was hurt, but he was huddled on the couch and didn't look very happy.

Aware of the effect his littler utterance had caused, Charlie groaned, saying louder, "Ow. That really hurt me." Then he lowered his head, looking as sad as he could.

Charlie was relieved to see Don slide around the recliner. Don stood gloomily next to the chair, Buddy hanging from his left hand and his thumb partway out of his mouth, his anger and mulishness finally conquered by his concern that he had caused physical harm to Charlie. He kept his eyes on the floor at first, but then gradually allowed them to glide along the floor and up the couch, until they settled on his brother. When Charlie was sure he had Don's full attention, he rubbed his hand across his heart and said 'ow' one more time.

Don felt guilty. He hadn't really meant to hurt Charlie, but he was angry and wanted him to know it. Only, now he had gone too far and had _really_ hurt his brother, something he had wanted to keep Mommy from doing, but instead had foolishly done himself.

Charlie sat still, his eyes lowered, as he heard Don straggle across the floor and plunk down next to him. To his surprise, Buddy was thrust into his lap and Don's arms encircled him; he felt an unsteady hand trying its best to rub his chest on the spot over his heart. Charlie leaned into the embrace, laying his cheek against Don's chest, his eyes closing as he cherished the welcome warmth. Don laid his chin on top of Charlie's head and tried to chase away his pain, just like his brother had done for him the night before. His hushed voice fluttered unevenly, "Ev'thing, okay…All gone, see…no hurt…no pain…"

And it was Charlie's turn to wonder at his brother's power to make him feel good, to make him feel happy, to chase away everybody and everything that hurt him in his life- the power he had to keep him safe.


	43. What She Contested

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

Author's note: I prefer to respond to reviews privately, but if you send one anonymously (which I obviously don't mind, otherwise I would shut off that option under my penname) the only way I can discuss a comment is this way, and then I risk sounding petty, which I try not to be. So, anyway, I didn't plan to be mean when I had Alan make the comment '_maybe I had the wrong son first_'. I absolutely love Don, and think he is the most kind and thoughtful man on television- I would never purposely put him down. This was just meant to be a musing of Alan's about the fact that Don was listening to Charlie better than he ever listened to him or his wife. And knowing how independent Don is, for Charlie to get him to sit quietly in a chair is really an accomplishment. On a last note, please, please remember that Don is not behaving this way- it is Melinda's Donny. And please remember that Charlie is sincere when he tells Don that many of the good things he knows how to do- including how to be brave- are because _Don_ taught him how to do them. By including these little statements, I had hoped that my description of Charlie's ability to take care of Don was a testament to both brothers, not a monument set up just for Charlie. If I am not making that clear, I do apologize.

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While Don and Charlie discussed their problems, Larry returned to the binder he had been reading and Alan set up lunch for his sons. Alan was putting utensils on the table when his cell phone rang.

"Hello?" Alan laid down a sippy cup filled with juice while he balanced the phone under his chin.

"Alan, it's Harvey Johnson. We need to talk."

"We were just about to sit down to lunch- can I call you back?" Alan went into the kitchen and returned carrying two plates of food; he positioned them adjacent to each other on the table.

"No, Alan- _we have to talk now._"

Hearing the serious tone in his lawyer's voice, Alan left the table and went into the living room to sit at the edge of the couch. "Sure, Harvey. If it's about my application for a restraining order, all I can tell you is that I was told that they needed time to review it and to return tomorrow." He began to fiddle with the corner of the couch cushion.

"No, Alan. It's more important than that. Thompson's lawyer finally filed papers contesting your petition for permanent conservatorship."

Alan pulled his fingers from the cushion and set them across his knee, tensely kneading the material of his jeans. "And what asinine reason did she give for contesting it?"

"She didn't give one; that is, an asinine reason. Thompson actually gives two good reasons for contesting, and I guarantee they're going to be very problematic."

"What could she possibly have said? That Charlie and I beat Don? He didn't have a mentally or physically incapacitating condition before he met _her_, and he certainly doesn't have any marks on him now, so how could she claim that?"

"To be honest Alan, I've been dealing with conservatorships and guardianships for a long time now. If she was claiming physical abuse, it would actually be better. At the worst, the court would remove Don from your care and investigate. Since you obviously do not mistreat him, he would then be returned to you. Hell, with how backed up the system is, they probably wouldn't even remove him- they'd just ask some questions, check him over, and that would be that. You really don't want to know how many truly abused adults slip through the cracks."

"Then what is she complaining about?" Alan demanded.

"Was a colleague of your son's- a Special Agent Megan Reeves- present when he signed himself into the institute?"

"Yes, she was. As a matter of fact, we briefly talked on the phone while she was helping him get admitted. What does that have to do with anything?"

"Well, it is all in the semantics, really. You say Reeves was _helping_, the night nurse says Reeves was _writing_, as in signing Don's name on the admittance papers. Fairfield, Thompson's lawyer, submitted a sworn statement from this nurse in which she states she witnessed Reeves do this."

"From what I overhead on my end of the line, Don was confused about what was going on and I know there was a time limit in getting him to sign the papers- there was only one room available and someone else was going to get it if Don didn't sign in first; so, Megan might have _helped_ him a little more than she should have."

"Alan, her kind of _help_ is illegal- you can't sign a person into an institute like that against their will. Involuntary institutionalization requires a hearing first."

"But I'm sure Megan has all sorts of degrees in psychology- she could say she diagnosed that he was a threat to himself."

"Alan, there isn't any documentation of his mental condition _before_ he was admitted- so, no, she can't lie about that now. As far as the court will be concerned, Agent Reeves signed a perfectly healthy man into a mental institute without his permission."

Angry, Alan leaned forward, tightly gripping the phone, "I don't know what happened that night, but whatever Megan did was to _help _Don. Megan would never do anything to hurt him. She has been a good friend to him, and like a daughter to me- I refuse to sit here and listen to you talk about her as if her _help_ in getting him admitted to that institute was some devious plot of hers to ruin my son."

"That's nice, Alan, that you defend this colleagueof his so well. I hope she's worth it, because she is going to cost you the position as Don's conservator."

Alan slowly lowered himself against the back of the couch, his anger replaced by fear.

"What are you talking about?"

"The night nurse also swore that you were on the phone when Reeves was signing Don's admittance papers."

"I've already said that I was. So what of it?" Alan wished the man would get to the point.

"Fairfield's contention is that you were aware of what Reeves was doing, and that she was acting on your behalf. It's an obvious assumption since you _were _on the phone with her when she signed Don's name. I'm sorry Alan, but this action is a violation of Don's civil rights, and I doubt that the judge is going to give it a pass- not when you will be the one making Don's medical decisions. He will not want to risk you deciding to institutionalize Don on your own again; he will be concerned that you will do so without first seeking permission from the probate court, which would still be required even if you were his conservator."

Alan moved his hand to his stomach, trying to still the acid bubbling inside. Talking around the fresh tick at the corner of his mouth, he fearfully asked, "Is there any way to prove I had nothing to do with Don getting admitted?"

"Yes, Alan. We can ask that charges be filed against Reeves and deny that you had any knowledge of her actions. If we don't, then I highly doubt the judge will believe you had nothing to do with the situation; why else would you refuse to go after her?"

In a pleading voice, Alan asked, "Can't we argue that the night nurse was lying? I don't want Megan to get into trouble for getting Don help- if it wasn't for her, he probably would have ended up in a state hospital instead of getting the quality help that he has."

"I really didn't think you would choose to go against your son's friend, Alan, but I would have been remiss in my duties if I hadn't mentioned it. As for fighting the statement of the night nurse- if we did that, we could be taking a simple hearing and complicating it into a matter for civil court, with both of our sides arguing in front of a jury. And if we bring too much attention to the whole situation, you and Reeves might end up in criminal court. No, I think there is a simpler route that we can take. We'll just amend the petition on Monday, and add Charlie's name to it. Then, the judge can give conservatorship to him. Since you and your son live together, I thought this route would be the most appealing to you."

"Yes, it is." Alan agreed, though it bothered him that the legal system (_the establishment_,the hippy in him cried) would believe he could not be trusted to care for his own son. "Charlie has been making a lot of the decisions concerning Don's medical conditions anyway, so it makes more sense to add his name than to punish Megan for being a good friend."

"Now, we have one other issue to discuss- the second reason Thompson gives for contesting the petition."

_Oh, no_, Alan thought, _here we go again._

Harvey continued, "Thompson states that she gave a list of institutes to Reeves when it was indicated that Don would be going to a hospital. _In our words_, it would be when the Bureau arrived at her house and took him from her at gun point. In any case, Thompson's contention is this: since Don was ultimately admitted to an institute on her list, and because Reeves was in communication with you throughout the process of determining where to place him and during his actual admittance, then it is clear that you took Thompson's advice as concerned Don's physical and mental care. The papers go on to explain that her advice should have also been sought when you filed the first papers of conservatorship; this you did not do, and have not done for the permanent ones, despite the fact that she is clearly a person of interest as pertains Don's well-being, and solely because you were aware that she would contest the petition."

"Is she suggesting that I should have sent a notification to her in jail?" Alan tore his nails into the couch. "Why the hell am I even asking that question? She kidnapped and tortured Don, and now she says I took her advice on how to help him?And that I should continue to ask her for it? Is the woman mad?"

"Whatever the woman is, she has a very good lawyer. As far as the court is concerned, all charges were dropped against Thompson. They can not treat her as if she were found guilty, and have to take her protests seriously."

Sighing, Alan closed his eyes. "Fine, okay. Does it affect our chances of getting the conservatorship?"

"It may affect it, yes."

Alan sat upright, his eyes opened once again but narrowed. "How?"

"I may be wrong, but if I'm reading these papers correctly, Thompson seems to be suggesting that she had been providing medical and physical care to Don before he was taken from her home, which would indicate that Don _chose_ her as his physician before the courts decided he was incapable of making that decision. If the court were to believe her claim, they might require a diagnosis as to Don's condition from _her_ instead of Wang, one they would require before making a decision on whether or not to issue permanent papers at all."

Alan had to lean back and close his eyes again. He was having a hard time grasping all the legal curveballs that Thompson's lawyer was throwing their way, and was having an even harder time understanding _why the hell that woman gets a say in what happens to my son- not hers, mine._ "So, she's trying to prevent us from getting the papers in order to keep us from controlling Don's therapy- is that it?"

"I can't be positive, but yes, I think so. And keep this in mind- she can gain control of Don even if the court does issue the conservatorship papers to Charlie. If Thompson were established as Don's doctor, then the court would still expect _her _to be the one guiding his therapy."

"But I thought the papers would allow Charlie to make Don's medical decisions?"

"Yes, but in this case, that would mean working with the physician Don chose, and had a legal right to do so, before he was recognized as being incapacitated. And according to Thompson's description of her relationship with Don, I believe that she is claiming that she was that doctor."

"But, but... that would mean..."

"I know the implications, too, Alan. She could take advantage of that position in a lot of ways: think of all the time she could spend alone with him, giving him _private_ therapy sessions that you might not have access to- the woman could say and do to him whatever she wanted, as long as she was careful not to leave a bruise. Or think about how she could suggest cutting down on some of his rehabilitation, which would hinder him from getting out from under her control. The worse case scenario would be if she told the court that Don had to be institutionalized permanently, and at a place to which she had access. He would be in the same situation he was in just a few weeks ago- locked up in a place separated from his friends and family, being mentally tortured by Thompson- and all of it approved by the court."

The muscles on Alan's face began to flex uncontrollably. "I,uh, no, we- they, uh- no, they wouldn't believe her, would they? How could they listen to anything that, that"-_bitch- _"madwoman could have to say?"

"We have no evidence indicating that Thompson is anything but sane, Alan, so her appearance in court will be as a concerned physician, not as an obsessed nutcase who wants to steal back your son. If we want to win, we need to fight on _her _terms. On Monday, we need to make sure that it is clear that Don's doctor is Wang, not Thompson. And the best way to do that would be to have Don state in court, under oath, that she isn't, because the court will not believe Thompson is Don's doctor if _he _is adamant that she isn't."

"That shouldn't be a problem. Don hasn't said anything about Thompson being his doctor- he has always referred to her as his mommy."

"Actually, Alan, I do believe you mentioned that Thompson made a visit to your house two nights ago. The risk she took in seeing Don may have been for more important reasons than her personal need to see him."

Alan tried to smooth the left side of his face, pressing his palm flat against it. "Megan warned us there was a good probability that Thompson made threats against me and Charlie- we thought the reason was to get Don to keep behaving like a child. You're suggesting she made those threats in order to get him to testify that she's his doctor in court, and to warn him against calling her mommy when we're there?"

"Yes, I am suggesting that very thing." Johnson paused to emphasize his next words. "Alan, it is imperative that you practice with Don- make him say it over and over again that Wang is his doctor and Thompson isn't. Reassure him that Thompson can't do anything to you or Charlie. Otherwise, Charlie may be issued papers of conservatorship on Monday, but Thompson will be the one with the real control."

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It didn't take long for Colby to find the farm again. He had every turn memorized. When he approached the house, he was not surprised to see Caleb standing on the porch, a pitcher of tea on the small table beside her.

"I didn't think you'd really wait before coming back with a subpoena," she said, opening her front door as invitation to enter. She carried the tea and a glass in with her, following Colby to her kitchen. "You needed a big envelope like that to carry a couple pieces of paper?"

Colby noticed that Caleb was acting more at ease with him, as if making her confession to him and not receiving judgment had formed an amiable bond of trust between them. He momentarily felt guilty for what he was about to do, but stayed true to his goal; he placed the yellow envelope on her table, unclasped its hinges and pulled out a large bundle of paper. He dropped it down in front of Caleb, who was now sitting across from him, the thud as it hit the table making her start a little in her seat.

"No, Caleb, I'm not here with a subpoena. During this visit, I'm hear to tell _you_ a story; specifically, the story of my friend, Don Eppes. If you would be so kind as to read the papers before you, I am sure you will find _his _as interesting as the ones you told me yesterday." Colby got up from the table, filled a glass with tea, and left her alone.

The sun had sunk to the horizon when Caleb joined Colby on the front porch at last. She had brought nothing from her kitchen to offer him; he hoped she had something from her conscience and her heart.

Caleb sat in the rocking chair, but held it still with the combined weight of her body and the heaviness of her guilt. "I had no idea, I swear I didn't."

"I should have told you yesterday," Colby apologized, "but it seemed like your burden was already so heavy. You're right about this place, Caleb. It _is _sad. I felt it yesterday, and I feel it again today. What happened here thirty-five years ago has kept you captive, holding you here with its sorrow and guilt, preventing you from seeing the changes that have occurred through all those years- in the world around you, and in the people you once knew."

"I know you are referring to Melinda. I guess I should call her Dr. Thompson now. Obviously, she is no longer the innocent young girl I once knew."

"So, why protect her by refusing to testify? You may have owed a debt to Melinda at some point, one that I think you have paid in full by banishing yourself to this prison." Colby swept his arm across the farm and the valley. "But you owe nothing-_absolutely nothing_- to Dr. Thompson. She deserves nobody's loyalty, least of all yours."

"I think I know that Colby. But as to what happened to your friend, my actions are more to blame than hers. If anyone should be punished, it is me."

Colby could tell by the direction Caleb's train of thought was taking her that she was still focused on her past actions and could not keep her attention on what was happening in the here and now. For the first time since meeting her, Colby hardened his resolve and his heart against the pitiful woman beside him. That morning, he had taken Megan's advice and reread Don's evaluations. The site of the scars on his legs and the description of the bruising on his face and back had been enough to steel him against the empathy he had felt for Caleb the day before. His eyes on the valley below him, unable to look at the effect his words were going to have on her, and with purposeful sarcasm drenching each word, Colby recited, "So many sins in the world, and only one little woman to carry the burden of them all."

Caleb stared at Colby in shock, her eyes widening as she replied with shame in her voice, "I didn't mean it like _that_."

Colby had to close his eyes and concentrate on Don, his friend, trying to fend off the desire to feel sorry for Caleb. When he was fortified once again, Colby opened his eyes; he turned to her and said accusingly, "Yes you did. Everything that you have said to me from the first time I met you until now has been a repetition of the same old theme: I'm so horrible, everything I do is wrong, it's all my fault. At first, I thought it was a way of punishing yourself by taking responsibility for what everyone else had done. But now, I think it's your way of punishing others, by keeping away the people who need you- like, Don, and your old boyfriend, Alfie."

"No, no," Caleb said, her hand loosely covering her mouth, "I would never want to harm someone else."

"That's what you said about Melinda's baby, and yet you did, now didn't you?" Colby struck Caleb at the core, a cruel but effective blow, one for which the agent knew he would be paying penance for a long time.

Caleb shakily stood up from the rocker, gripping its arms in a death hold for support. "I didn't mean, I really didn't want to...I thought you knew- that you understood." Tears fell from her eyes as she tried to walk into the house, but her legs were unstable from her distress.

Realizing he had pushed too hard, Colby took Caleb's arm in his and walked her inside, finding a cushioned chair in a darkened room off the main entrance and helping the unsteady woman sit down. He went into the kitchen and brought her some tea, crouched down before her and holding the glass as she drank.

"I'm sorry, Caleb. That last remark was crude." Colby stood up and went to the doorway, flicking on the light as he realized the sun had almost set, the house becoming engulfed in the night.

Caleb took a deep breath and stared across the room, her eyes seeking the cover of darkness in the entryway, just beyond the light emanating from the fixture above her. "No, I think I deserved that- and even more. Not only did I cause Melinda to lose her baby, but my actions have caused harm to be done to Maggie and Alan's little boy, too."

Colby sighed. He sat down on a worn loveseat to the left of Caleb, and wrung his hands in front of him. "Caleb, you're doing it again. You have to get rid of this mindset that you are the sole person responsible for everything that happens to and around you. I really _shouldn't _have been so crass just now, but I'm desperate. I'm sorry for what happened to Melinda- and to you, and Alfie, and Randy, and the baby. But that happened over thirty-five years ago, and you are right, Don is being hurt- only that harm is occurring right _now._ I need you to stop thinking about the past, and start focusing on the future; otherwise, Don is not going to have one if you refuse to speak out about Melinda."

"A part of me knows that you are right, Colby. Maybe I needed someone to say these things to me a long time ago. All these years, I've trusted that Randy and Alfie took care of Melinda's obsession about her baby; I would never have imagined that anyone, especially not the woman I knew, could have done..." She fell silent, a new image of a baby's damaged spirit flirting at the corners of her mind. Only, this one was alive and had curly black hair and the most ingratiating smile. "I _have_ been hiding in the past. In a sense, it has become so familiar to me that trying to break free from it is like running away from home."

Reaching across to Caleb and holding her hand, Colby found he could no longer fight the sympathy that welled in his soul. "My boss is sending a subpoena as we speak- a demand from the USDA that you provide a statement. But from the small amount of time we've spent together, I believe that you were being truthful when you said that it would do no good, and that you would not give her a sworn statement as to the events that occurred here." Speaking low in his throat, Colby implored, "Please, Caleb, please- if you come with me and make the statement on your own, I know you'll have paid any debt that is owed to Don and his family. And to Melinda, too; it is clear that she never received the treatment she needed to get over the death of her baby, and your testimony may force her to finally get it."

Caleb stopped staring ahead of her. Her eyes flitted to Colby, a sudden spark in them. "Can they put her in a mental institution instead of jail, even if she's convicted?"

"If her lawyer is good enough, then yes, that is a possibility." Colby pulled away from her, wondering if it had been a mistake to bring it up.

It was.

Leaning forward, her eyes gleaming, Caleb asked, "But is it more than possible? If I tell the truth about everything that has happened, will the DA promise to put Melinda in a mental facility instead of prison?"

"Well," Colby hedged, "I don't know about that. I think we're getting away from what's important; we need to keep Don and his well-being in mind. Remember, you owe him a far greater debt than Melinda."

"But your friend is young and healthy- I read his evaluations, and his doctors say he will heal. Melinda deserves that chance to heal, too." Caleb crossed her arms. "I know _you_ can't give me a guarantee, but if your boss promises to at least try to get Melinda placed in a facility instead of prison, then I promise that I will tell her everything I know."

Shrewdly, Colby asked, "Does that include the location of the baby's grave and Alfie's real name?"

A small gasp came from Caleb's lips; Colby gave a wry smile in response. Readjusting her arms and ignoring Colby's second request, Caleb lowered her brows and quietly replied, "Yes, including the location of the baby's grave."

Settling for the grave, and certain they could find Alfie through the tax records, Colby held out his hand. Tentatively, Caleb shook it, saying as she did so, "By the way, I'll want that promise in writing."


	44. Who You Remembered

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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Charlie held Buddy in his arms, petting his left ear as Don smiled approvingly.

_Two-hundred and eighty-seven._

That was the exact number of fur strings Charlie counted on the rabbit's left ear, hoping that he did not reduce it by even one. He and Don had been sitting next to each other in the solarium, quietly enjoying each other's company. When he felt they were ready to talk about the problems they'd had that day, Charlie gave Buddy to Don and smiled when he saw how his brother kissed the rabbit's head, clinging to it as if Buddy had returned from a long trip. Charlie appreciated Don's selfless act of sharing the toy, an indication to him that Don thought that healing his brother's pain was more important than having the security of his best friend by his side. Slightly amused with himself, Charlie wondered if he had been guilty of feeling jealous, too, only of Don's relationship with Buddy rather than with an actual friend.

"Don, do you finally forgive me?" Charlie tried to read his brother's eyes, but could not reach them as Don kept them cemented to Buddy's head.

"I do...And... I'm sorry."

"I forgive you, too. I understand that it can be hard to share someone you love with other people. Sometimes you get afraid that they won't come back to you. But I'm your brother, and I always will."

"Like Mommy." Don stated.

Charlie frowned. He hated having to talk about that woman as if she were really their mom. But he also knew it was important to get Don to talk more about her visit, so Charlie agreed, "Yes, she did come back, didn't she, on Monday night- and when she left, she took something with her."

Don nodded tearfully. "She took the belt."

"No, Don she didn't." Charlie watched as Don raised his head and stared at him in disbelief. "She took the lockbox, Don, but the belt wasn't in it." Charlie grappled with the words he was about to say, wanting them to be perfect. "I didn't lie this morning when I said the belt was gone and she didn't have access to it. Well, at least I didn't mean to lie. I was wrong to imply that it was in the closet, and I understand why you got mad at me for pretending like it was, when you knew it wasn't. But I was not lying when I said she didn't have it. Monday morning, I gave the belt to some friends of ours- so they could keep it safe. When she came that night, you might have thought she took the belt, but all she got was an empty container. Now she has no way to hit you anymore."

Don licked his lips. "It was empty?"

"Yes, Don," Charlie ran his finger in an ex across his chest. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

Don sat and thought about how Mommy had hit him the night before, over and over. She had been able to do that and she didn't even have the belt. Fear clutched at his throat as he thought about how much power Mommy had. And Mommy would know by now that the lockbox had been empty. Don turned to Charlie- how will Mommy teach _you _to be good when she finds out you gave away her belt? It was too much for Don to think about, his anxiety causing him to shiver.

Charlie pulled Don to him and held tight, trying to stop the uncontrollable shaking of his body. He had thought their discussion would make Don feel secure again, but it hadn't worked. Somehow, it had made matters worse, and all he could do was try to dam the overflow of fear that was streaming through Don's body.

"Please, Don, it's alright. Tell me what is wrong?"

"She...she..." Don stuttered.

"What, Don. Come on, you have to tell me."

"No," he said, "she'll hurt..." No further sound came from his mouth, just raspy breaths of air.

"Hurt you, Don?" It dawned on Charlie that if Don thought Thompson really hit him last night, and if he believed him now about the belt, then Don knew her possession of it made no difference in her ability to hurt him. For this, Charlie regretted that he had needed to tell Don the truth about the belt, as he had inadvertantly increased Don's assessment of Thompson's ability to cause harm. "Don't worry, I'll still protect you and take care of you."

"Yes...and...and..."

Charlie remembered what Megan told their dad about Thompson threatening them. He tightened his arms around Don and said, "She may want to hurt me and Dad, Don, but she can't. We are too strong for that. You have to believe me- I promise."

Don pictured all of the things his mommy had done to him, and how strong she was when he tried to fight her off. Charlie was not as big as him and Daddy was much older. How could they win against her if he wasn't able to? He didn't believe that Charlie was lying to him. Don knew he should not think that again, especially after the bad day they'd had because he thought Charlie had lied the first time. But Don knew Mommy better than they did, and he knew it was easy to think that she was weak.

But she wasn't, Don thought, not at all.

Charlie began to hum in Don's ear as he rocked their bodies back and forth. Don's shivering had almost disappeared when Alan appeared in the doorway asking, "Are you friends again?"

"I don't know for sure." Charlie separated from Don. He knew it would be a long time before Don learned that he did not have to fear Thompson. In the meantime, he wanted to make sure that he and his brother had at least solved the problems from that morning. He asked Don, "Well, what do you say? Are we friends?"

While Don was thinking, Alan sank down on the couch beside him, and Larry appeared in his stead. The small man dropped cross-legged on the recliner once he detected that the tension that previously filled the air had faded.

Charlie saw the stress in Alan's face. He raised two questioning eyebrows, and Alan whispered _during naptime_ as his answer in return.

Don looked over at Larry and frowned, sizing up the scientist with a knowing eye. Larry didn't look scary; he had already decided that. He was a little funny-looking; his clothes didn't look like they fit very well, the buttons not even in their right holes and the fabric all wrinkly. Taking in the short height of the man, Don decided Larry's mommy needed to be more careful when she dressed him. Sneaking a glance at Charlie, Don was satisfied that his brother hadn't shifted his attention to his friend. Then Don remembered.

Charlie said Larry was _our_ friend.

Maybe that was why Larry had given him the sucker. He was being a good friend, trying to make Don happy, just like Buddy always did. Thinking of his best friend, Don realized he had shared him with Charlie and it was okay. He felt certain that Charlie had done the same with Larry, and had shared him with Don. Now he and Charlie both had two friends, but more importantly, they still had each other.

His approval of Larry finalized, Don told his father, "Yeah...we're all friends." And he smiled at Larry, who flustered and offered a smile of his own.

"About time, young man," Alan admonished, "You are over an hour late for lunch and overdue for a nap."

"Sorry," Don dropped his eyes. "Didn't mean to."

Alan gave him a quick hug and kiss on the head. "I know, Donny. I just hate whenever you and Charlie argue."

Don gave him a baffled look. "We don't argue...not before."

Charlie grinned next to Don. "To be honest, Don, we have in the past."

Don switched his attention to Charlie. "No we didn't."

"I'm afraid your brother is correct," Larry said from his seat, "But you've always been able to make up."

"Sometimes, though," Alan said ruefully, "You two have held a grudge, and it has taken days, even weeks before you would talk to each other."

"Like that one ridiculous disagreement you and Don had," Larry rolled his eyes up and to the side, thinking, "the one your dad told me about. I believe it ended with you two on the front lawn."

"You would have to bring that up," Charlie laughed, joined by the rest of the room's occupants, though Don wasn't sure what had been funny. They were enjoying the benefits of the released tension, all of them so at ease with each other it was if Melinda Thompson had never entered their lives and it was just an average afternoon in the Eppes home, all four men joking with each other.

"On the front lawn...doing what?" Don asked, excited at having fun again.

"On the front lawn fighting," Alan smiled, the worries of the day erased from his face.

"No!" Don said, and then he giggled. "Who won?"

Quickly, Charlie said, "Nobody did! We came out exactly even."

Then all four men laughed. "Don't believe you." Don said, but feeling guilty for saying it, he added, "You're just wrong."

"Oh, I think he is a tad bit more than wrong," Alan busted out his youngest son. "I believe he lost the girl in the end."

"Dear me, I had forgotten the fight was about a young girl," Larry smiled, "It seems impossible that you boys would go to such lengths over any girl."

"What, don't all teenage boys settle their disputes on their front lawns?" Alan inquired, smirking between laughs.

"Fighting in the dirt no less," Larry shook his head and chuckled, "over something as simple as a date."

"Wait a minute!" Charlie sat up, moving his hands back and forth over each other, as if calling someone safe, "This was not just any date. This was prom. And she definitely was not just any girl."

"No," Don quipped, nodding his head knowingly, "It was Val."

Three pairs of eyes widened and turned toward Don, who continued to laugh merrily, completely unaware of the scrutiny of the others in the room.

Charlie, Alan and Larry looked at each other, sharing the same thought- Don remembered someone. Trying to remain casual and not put too much pressure on Don, all three men laughed again, adjusting their positions in their seats. Charlie sat at an angle, his limbs thrown about on his small share of the couch. Alan lay against the side of the couch, casually throwing his arm over its back. Larry climbed onto the arm of the recliner and perched there, his feet dangling over the side.

"Wow! That was funny," Charlie exclaimed, laughing nervously, "us fighting over Val. I don't even remember what she looked like." Then he looked expectantly at Don, as if anticipating an answer.

Don laughed back. "Bet she pretty."

"Sure was," Alan contributed with a large grin on his face, "all that blond hair."

Continuing to laugh, Don told his father, "No, brown hair." And then he added for good measure, "long...soft...like Buddy." He held the toy out to Alan and petted it in an effort to get him to understand.

"Really?" Charlie tried to look amazed. "I remember her having blond hair, too, and the bluest eyes I have ever seen."

Don stopped laughing, a frown creasing his mouth. "Don't think so." Closing his eyes, he affirmed, "Brown...with green spots." When he opened his eyes again, he grinned, proud of himself as he was acutely aware that he had garnered an audience.

Recognizing the self-satisfied expresssion on Don's face, Charlie decided to forgo the roundabout efforts and directly asked him, "What else do you remember about her?"

When Don closed his eyes again, the other three men unconsciously leaned forward as one.

"Pretty, yes..." Don sighed. Then he settled into his seat and rested the back of his head against the couch. "Tall, white teeth….smart." He peeked an eye open, making sure he had the attention of everybody in the room.

He did.

Don scrunched his eyes shut and tried to picture the girl. She reminded him of Mommy, with her long, dark hair, but then she didn't. Val, Don said in his mind, letting it float about before repeating her name- Val.

Then Don could see her and they were dancing, her body pressed up close to his, lights everywhere, shining in their faces, and he thought the lights must have been hot, because he was warm, very warm.

"Dancing slow." Don spoke aloud. "Lights and…and…palm trees?"

Charlie turned and leaned back toward Larry, "Our prom theme had something to do with paradise- some stupid thing like that."

Overhearing him, Don said, "You don't know…it's stupid…didn't go."

Larry and Alan muffled a laugh. Charlie smiled and shook his head.

Eyes still closed, Don thought about the big dance, the prom. Val was beautiful in his arms; he smiled without thinking.

"Do you remember something else, Don?" Alan asked.

"She's so pretty." Don sighed again.

Time flashed forward in his mind. Val and he were no longer dancing; they were in a room, pressing against each other. Don licked his lips. Val was like Mommy, she was getting him dressed. No, that wasn't right. She was taking off his clothes, and he was kissing her. Not on the cheek, like he did Mommy and Daddy, or when they kissed him on the head. And it made him feel different, not safe at all. It made him feel nervous and happy and scared and excited all at once.

Continuing to sit languidly against the back of the couch, his hands lying loosely on either side of him, Buddy fallen away, eyes closed, Don whispered happily, "Soft skin…real soft hair…silky…ev'rywhere…"

Val's eyes held his, directly across from him. She grimaced, and arched her neck, huskily grunting his name before he kissed her again.

"Feels warm and hot…" Don's tongue flicked out as if to taste a treat. "Tastes like…good, better than…suckers…her nails are strong…scratch in my back… she strong, too…push against me…hard."

"Uh, oh." Alan said, realizing what Don was beginning to describe. "Donny, maybe those are enough memories for now."

"No," Don said, "It's nice…real nice…she's soft…and hot…ev'rywhere." Don's voice was filled with awe.

"That's really enough, Don," Charlie said, sitting forward and taking a sterner voice than Alan. "You did a great job, but we have to eat lunch now."

Don could no longer hear the people around him. Everything was Val. She ran her fingers along his spine and goose bumps coated his arms. She flicked her tongue along his lips, and rubbed her calf up his leg, higher and higher. When she opened her arms, drawing him in, he was sure he was being consumed by fire.

Sweat beaded Don's forehead and a quiet gasp escaped his lips.

"Donny," Alan shook his arm gently. "That's enough for now."

Then everything crashed- Don's thoughts shattered into a million pieces. Desperately, he grasped at them, but they refused to realign and he was left with just the name of a woman whose memory he had lost once again.

Don sat forward and put his head between his knees, a headache beginning to surface. "She's gone…all gone," he said with remorse.

Concerned, Alan took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at Don's brow, drying the sweat dotting it. "It's okay, Donny. If I know anything about your past, there are a lot more memories where that came from." While he rubbed Don's neck, Alan looked over to Charlie, who sat with a slightly perturbed look on his face.

"What's wrong, Charlie?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing. I think it's great that he finally remembered someone." He got up, putting a hand under Don's arm to help him stand. When all four men were heading to the dining room, Alan pulled Charlie under his arm and asked him, "You're not upset that Don's first memory was of a girl, are you? Because you know he'll remember us soon enough."

"No, no, that's not it," Charlie responded, stopping while Don and Larry sat at the table. "Really, it's not important." But his father had his eyes on Charlie, waiting for him to explain. "It's really nothing. It was just a little annoying to find out that Don, uh, lied to me."

"About what?" Alan asked curiously.

"About Val," Charlie said. "It's not that important, not compared to him remembering someone and all. It's just that he, uh, when I asked him about it afterward, he told me nothing happened, you know, prom night. He and Val never did anything."

Alan snorted, "Charlie, how could you believe that? It was prom night- at some point, it had to have crossed your mind that Don lied?"

Charlie shook his head, "I know, I know. But up until now, at least I was able to pretend it was true. And I know it shouldn't matter, but a little feeling of envy kind of stabbed me in the chest- not much, but still," he shrugged his shoulders. "But what bothers me more is that I was thinking- what if more memories come up about other stuff he kept from us? Things maybe he didn't want us to know for good reason. Don's always kept his personal life private, and now it's like we're going to be cutting it open and displaying it to the world. I don't want him to resent us for that later."

Alan turned Charlie towards him, so they were facing each other. "I think we need to handle Don's memories like we have all of our problems- as they occur. And I hate to say it, but Don's older memories are going to be the least of our problems. You know how emotionally traumatic it will be when Don- our Don, not Thompson's- becomes aware of the recent events in his life. We already know that the humiliation of what she did to him, and what we have had to do to keep him secure now, is going to be overwhelming to Don. Whether they're bad memories or ones he wanted to keep private, at least the ones we're helping Don dig up are his; these most recent ones are more Thompson's memories than his own, and I think Don's knowledge of them is what will affect him the worst."

Charlie nodded in understanding. Unfortunately, his father was right. Even if Don would not want them to know about certain events in his life, Charlie knew his brother would be less concerned about that than how they had babied him now.

When Charlie sat down next to Don at the table, he put the feeding glove on him, and then positioned his hands to massage his throat. He was almost slipping into a depressed mood of his own, when Don flopped Buddy on the table between them and smiled at him, as if everything in the world was right. And thanks to Don's presence, Charlie was at least able to pretend it was true, even if it was only for a little while.

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Caleb again found herself on her front porch watching the twin headlights of Colby's car disappear, regretting the loss of light as it was extinguished by the curve of the hill. She hugged her body when she glimpsed the wispy memories that hung from the eaves of her house like icicles. But when her thoughts turned to Maggie and Alan's little baby boy and how she would help him, Caleb was surprised that the flimsy memories melted and for the first time in thirty-five years, she became aware of her surroundings. Not of the valley that had carried a commune on its back, not of the barn that had housed death, and not of the black earth that covered a sin; Caleb was aware of the fresh smell of grapes breezing across her face from the distant vineyards, bright stars crackling at her eyes, tall reeds fluting a soft song in the wind, warm air shadowing her back, and the taste of redemption wet on her tongue.

Caleb found it strange, but she no longer felt comfort from the night, but desired as much light as she could obtain. Quickly, she went into her home, dashing from room to room, turning on every switch. When she was done, Caleb dropped down the stairs, energized by the promise Colby had made her that he would return that night with a fax from the USDA, a piece of paper that was to be Caleb's salvation. She felt that Colby was right, if she testified on her own, she would be paying her debt to the Eppes; but her final debt to Melinda would be paid with the promise she had obtained- that, if possible, Melinda would be given help rather than punished.

Wanting to be prepared when Colby returned, Caleb packed a small duffle bag with clothes and necessities, just enough for a day or two. Then she took a flashlight from a drawer and went outside, where she searched along the side of her house until she found a shovel. Next, she took a sheet down from her clothesline in back and carried everything to the front of her porch, climbing down under it and dragging the shovel and sheet behind her as she crawled backwards to the grave of Melinda's baby.

So busy was Caleb, she did not notice another set of lights come over the distant hill and down towards her valley. Not that she would have been concerned if she had seen the lights. Caleb would have just assumed the occupants of the car were lost, and would turn around once they reached the end of the road. Or, if they got stuck, that they would use the shovel Colby had left by the side of the road to dig their way out and then leave. In either case, the appearance of car headlights would not have alarmed her. That would have only occured if they did not disappear over the curve of the hill, but were extinguished instead-

-just as these particular headlights were.

Some time later, Caleb wormed her way out of the crawlspace, pulling a bundle after her. She stood up, trying to hold the filled sheet in front and away from her with both hands; she carried it around to the front steps, the flashlight held between her teeth and her eyes on the narrowly illuminated path before her feet. When Caleb got to the bottom step, she attempted to climb up, but lost her balance.

Quickly, she opened her right hand, releasing her grip on the sheet and reaching out to grab a banister.

But it wasn't hard wood that she touched; instead, her hand landed on the thin arm of a man.

Caleb looked up, then became petrified from fright, as she stared into the dark eyes of Gordon Fairfield.


	45. How They Kept Digging

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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After lunch Wednesday afternoon, Don took his nap while Alan sat guard at the top of the stairs, Charlie next to him. Alan explained everything that his attorney had said to him on the phone, and emphasized that they needed to convince Don to state in court that Wang was his doctor. He also described his past connection with Thompson, and his worry that the woman would never give up on her quest to obtain Don. When they finished, Alan slipped away and went to Don's room, determined that the court wouldn't keep him from putting his arms around his son and holding him, whether they thought he was a capable father or not.

Charlie padded down the stairs and out to the garage, where Larry had been busy erasing every chalkboard in the room. While the Eppes had eaten, Larry had explained, in terms only he and Charlie could understand, why the original algorithm for identifying the cause of the brain trauma had been incorrect, ending his assessment by saying. "You should be setting up a method of giving appropriate weight to all causes, and then look for the outliers. The assumption we should be making is that Thompson used an unusual method and that is why they have been unable to find the exact cause." Having agreed with Larry, Charlie gave his friend permission to erase his previous work so that they could start from scratch.

When Charlie joined Larry in the garage, he surprised his friend by asking him if he would like to go for a ride, instead of moving directly to the blank chalkboards and writing on them. Though still desirous about the work, Charlie had become lost in his brother's rehabilitation once again, this time prodded on by Don's memory of Val. Larry answered affirmatively, and they left, making a trip to a storage unit facility. From separate units, the two men took several boxes containing the clothing of the late Margaret Eppes and others with some of the hastily-packaged contents of Don's old apartment. They brought them back to the house, lugged them in, and stored them in a corner of the living room. Then they cleared the electric train from the coffee table and began to go through the contents of the boxes, Charlie guiding Larry to either return an item to its original container, or where to place it on the table in order to keep everything organized. They had gone through three boxes when Alan and Don appeared, both men yawning but in better moods than they had been in the morning.

Charlie spent the rest of the day helping Don earn nine more stars, glad that his brother was showing off at last. Don refused to do another activity until both men gave him praise; then he would dive in full-heartedly into his exercises, cheered on by his brother and their friend. But every now and then it was Charlie who sought approval, looking at Larry and unconsciously hesitating to go on until he received a nod or a smile. And Larry, realizing Charlie's need, complied with the unspoken request.

When they finished with Don's therapy, Larry excused himself and went home, promising to be a second escort at Don's aqua therapy the next day as Alan had to return to court. Then Charlie and Alan sat on either side of Don on the living room couch, each one taking turns quietly whispering in his ear and holding him, telling him that there was no reason to fear his mommy, that she could not hurt him, that she could not hurt them, that no matter what, they would all be safe. In between the reassurances, they interjected praises about Don's progress in meeting his doctor's therapy goals-_you remember your doctor, Don, his name is Dr. Wang_- and then asking Don to recite the man's name back to them, rewarding him with more positive statements and stronger hugs whenever he did.

After having a successful second half of the day, Alan and Charlie slid into bed next to Don, hoping that their reassurances and a full dose of sedatives were enough to keep his nightmares away.

But as Don had thought earlier, Melinda Thompson was strong enough to harm him even without possession of her belt.

And he tried to make his father and brother aware of that fact, when he woke again and began to scream from the fresh pain of thrashes and teeth…sharp, sharp teeth.

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Late Wednesday evening, Colby stood on Caleb's porch, anger and worry pounding into him. He had returned less than five hours after leaving the farm, having driven like a madman to the nearest police station, calling Megan on the phone while he drove as soon as he was able to get a signal. Megan must have worked fast, he had thought, because she had been able to contact Nadine, forward Caleb's request, and fax back Nadine's promise to try to place Thompson in a psychiatric facility if found guilty- all within three hours of his first talking to her.

He had probably broken several laws, but Colby had sped back to Caleb's home in record time. When he had parked his car, he had seen the lights of her house across the valley, lit up like she was celebrating a holiday. Colby had grinned at first, thinking it an indication that Caleb no longer wanted to hide but was inviting the world into her house, pushing away the darkness that she had been cloaked in for so many years. But when Colby walked up her front steps and was not greeted with a glass of tea, he became worried.

Where was she?

Colby spent several hours searching the house, barn and fields before giving up. The woman was not there. As he left the back of the house and came around to its front, he walked by the side of the porch. He noticed a slat was out of place. Stepping closer, he kneeled, pushed the wood aside, and pulled out the flashlight Caleb had given him the day before. He shone it under the porch, making a trail of light along the ground till it reached the far corner, where the earth was disturbed. On hands and knees, he crawled under the porch to the spot, frowning when he realized that someone had recently dug into the dirt.

Colby was positive he was looking at the former gravesite of Melinda's dead baby.

When he reappeared from under the porch, Colby immediately jogged down the trail to his car. It took him forty minutes of driving before his phone caught a signal and he was able to reach Megan again.

"We have a problem, Megan- a big one." Colby twisted the steering wheel hard right as he went around a curve, anger controlling his movements.

Megan fumed through the phone. "She changed her mind, didn't she? After what Nadine went through to get permission to send that written promise, she just better not have changed her mind."

Pressing his foot hard on the gas, Colby remarked, "Well, she's not going to give us a statement- that I'm pretty sure about. But I don't think it's because she changed her mind."

There was a long silence between Megan and Colby as she took in his words. "Colby, Ms. Whitehall wasn't hurt tonight, was she?"

Exasperated, Colby wrenched the steering wheel to his left, just barely missing a car stuck on the side of the road. "I don't know, Megan. That's the problem. I went back to her house and she wasn't inside. I searched all over that farm, but I didn't find her anywhere. And get this: as I finished my search, I'm positive I found the baby's gravesite- right under her front porch."

"You've got to be kidding me? All those years with a dead baby buried feet from her front door- no wonder she can't think straight. You didn't disturb it, did you? I would much rather"-

Colby sharply interrupted, "No, someone else did that before me. From what I could tell, that grave was dug up recently- I bet while I was gone tonight. Megan, I don't think Caleb went back on her word; I believed her when she promised to testify if we got her that note. I'm sure something happened to her- I can feel it."

While Colby talked, Megan mulled over a different occurrence that Nadine had informed her about right before his call. When Colby went quiet, she decided it would be best to tell him, though she knew it would increase his concern about Caleb. "Colby, something happened to Perceival Jackson earlier tonight. He was being transferred to another cell when a prisoner shanked him in the groin, pulling the knife over and out, then stabbing him again, only down further, tearing deep into his leg; he bled to death before they could save him."

The knuckles on Colby's left hand turned white as he gripped the steering wheel. "Do you think Thompson is behind it?"

"I might think it, but there is no way to prove it. Nadine told me that the perpetrator was already being charged with his third felony _before _he murdered Jackson. She assured me the evidence for that crime was so strongly against the guy that he had nothing to lose by killing Jackson."

Colby took a rough turn into the parking lot of the same police station he'd visited earlier, turned off his car and stayed in his seat so he could finish his conversation. "After what he wanted to do to Don, for Jackson to get it in the groin like that must have been somebody's way of getting a sick sort of justice. I can't imagine Alan or Charlie getting involved in something like that, so who else could have been behind it besides Thompson?"

"Colby, there is no doubt in my mind that she had something to do with this, and I think Nadine's pretty sure herself. But we can't convict people without evidence, you know. Which we will probably never get; remember, Thompson's attorney is Gordon Fairfield- he has been practicing federal criminal law for years. Who knows how many of his former clients owe him something, and are willing to have someone repay their debt with actions rather than cash?"

"Are you looking to see if the actual perp had ever been a client of Fairfield's?"

"Of course, we already checked that out. Unfortunately, he never was. According to Nadine, that's not surprising. She said if he had been a client of Fairfield's, then he wouldn't have been convicted of those other two felonies. Fairfield is just that good; which means we should hold out little hope that Fairfield would be so stupid as to leave a trail from Jackson's murderer to himself."

"If Thompson and Fairfield had the means to take out Jackson in jail, then Caleb was easy game." Colby punched the dashboard in front of him, regretting it the moment his knuckles hit the vinyl. "Damn!" He tried to shake away the sting.

"What happened!" Megan snapped.

"Nothing- just hit my hand." Flexing his fingers, Colby told Megan, "I'm going to see if I can rally up the local cops and get them to do a more thorough search of Caleb's farm. I'm so stupid, Megan. Why didn't I make her come with me?"

"Don't start blaming yourself, Colby. You can't be sure that Whitehall didn't run off on her own, taking the remains of Melinda's baby with her." Megan didn't believe the words even as she spoke them.

"For Pete's sake Megan, she lived out in the middle of nowhere and didn't even have a car. What'd she do, lug them down to the main highway and hitchhike." Mockingly he said, "Oh, don't mind those, mister; I'm on my way to sell them to MJ."

"Okay, okay- I know it's farfetched that she left on her own. But she refused to go with you until she saw that fax, and you had to leave in order to get it, so even if Thompson did do something to her, _it is not your fault_."

Colby couldn't disagree with Megan more, but felt there was no point in arguing. He climbed out of his car and slammed the door shut, leaning against it as he said, "If the police will take my word as to the serious nature of her disappearance and conduct a more thorough search, I'll head back first thing in the morning. I don't think there's anything else for me to do here."

"Actually, there is. Sonoma County's central computer site is down for revamping and I couldn't find out who has been paying the property taxes on Whitehall's farm. I tried talking to someone over the phone, but the last thing she told me was 'I'll call you right back' and, of course, she never did. So, while you're there anyway, why don't you go to the county treasurer's office in Santa Rosa and see if you can get them to look up the information for you."

'Will do, Megan, but when I find Alfie, I'm not going to let him out of my sight. I'm not about to lose another witness."

"You didn't lose the first one, Colby. If you keep blaming yourself for every thing that goes wrong, you're going to end up on a farm somewhere spending all of your time making herbal tea and rocking on your front porch."

"Message received, message understood," Colby replied, then he clicked his phone shut and headed into the police station, worried that a more thorough investigation of Caleb's farm was going to reveal where two sets of bones were buried instead of one.

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The next day, David spent the earlier part of Thursday morning speaking to Melinda and Randy Thompson's doctor, who was amazingly healthy at the ripe age of ninety-three. Dr. Mark Smith had greeted David with the opening line, "I'm too old to lie about what I did, and you can't do anything about it anyway." David hadn't been able to argue about either statement.

It hadn't taken them long to find the old man. There were less than seven thousand people living in Alta Sierra, and only a handful of private physicians; any one not satisfied with the slim pickings could easily find other options in neighboring towns. When Megan had repeated Caleb's story to David, he had volunteered to find the doctor and see if he knew anything about what had happened with the Thompson baby. For research, David had simply looked up the names of all the doctors in Alta Sierra and called each one. When he came across Smith, the doctor admitted to being the Thompsons' physician over thirty years before, and said he would readily talk to David- but only in person.

"Can't hear too well on the phone," was the old man's excuse. When David met with him, he suspected the old man was more lonely than hard of hearing.

They had talked for two hours, about nothing in general, until the old man said he was tiring and would get to the point himself. "I was Mel's doctor from the time she was little, and yes, she trusted me implicitly. That's what makes the whole situation easy to remember. Hard to forget when the little girl you knew is suddenly all grown up and pregnant. Beautiful child, she was. Those deep eyes of hers dragged you in; never wanted to leave them, but then you always had to. Hurt me deeply when Randy took her to that commune. I had wanted to be the one to deliver her child."

"Did she seem overly anxious about the pregnancy?" David asked, reclining in a chair set out on the old man's patio. Like Colby, he felt guilty for enjoying his surroundings, the beauty of a well-kept garden entrancing his eyes and fresh air filling his lungs, all thoughts of L.A. whisked from his mind.

"Anxious," Smith rubbed his chin and twisted his jaw, "not anxious, no. Excited would be the term I'd use. Maybe you don't know it, but Randy was the last of his line. And so was Melinda, as a matter of fact. Sort of like Adam and Eve, I guess you'd say, as refers to their families. It was up to them to continue their lineage, and so, yeah, Mel was real excited to be able to do that. So was Randy, of course, but Mel- she kinda sunk everything she had into the baby; like she was fulfilling some strange destiny that only she knew about."

"If the baby meant so much to her, why'd she decide to trust a midwife over you, someone she'd known all her life?' David tapped the arm of his chair with his fingers.

"Because of Randy; that baby was important to her mainly because it was his, and when he came up with that cockamamie idea of going to the commune to have it, she didn't have it in her to say no. You just don't know how much she loved that man." Smith looked beyond David at his garden. Flowers and bushes of various heights surrounded the patio, encasing them in life. At ninety-three, Smith appreciated life.

"When did you find out that the baby had died?" David asked, his eyes resting on the plants past and to Smith's left. Beautiful, he thought.

"Right after it occurred. Now, I told you I'm not gonna lie to you, figure I'd die before you could bring fraud or whatever-the-hell-you-feel-like charges against me. Besides, I don't reckon what I've got to say will much matter to anybody now, anyway. Randy's gone and Mel herself has never asked me to remain quiet about her baby's death, so I don't think she'd mind me telling you."

David disagreed, but held his tongue.

Receiving no response, Smith started his explanation. "They brought her to the local hospital, and it was a mess. Melinda all torn up inside and Randy pleading with me to keep what happened quiet. And I did, but not for him and his political ideology. I did it because I thought it would help Mel. The death of a child is a personal thing, and I thought Randy was correct in trying to keep publicity away from the death of theirs. Only, it turned out later that I was wrong."

"Melinda didn't take well to keeping the whole thing hush-hush, did she?"

"No, no she didn't. They brought her some professional help, daily visits with some doctors. But when I saw her a couple weeks after the event, she kept asking me about her son, as if he were alive and we were all involved in some conspiracy to keep him from her. It wasn't long after that when Randy came to me again. Stupid ass didn't even know where the remains of his baby were, and couldn't have a funeral without a death certificate-wanted me to sign a false one. What kind of man is that, doesn't even know where his baby is buried?"

Smith looked to David for an answer, but the agent didn't know of any that he could give.

He opted to ask a question instead. "Did he ever say why he didn't go to the commune and get the baby's body? That had to be where it was buried."

"He couldn't get anyone else involved, so he couldn't ask someone to go there to look , and he couldn't go himself becasue he was afraid to leave Mel alone. She'd slipped out a couple times, and he and that friend of his barely got her back safe and sound; took both of them watching her fulltime to keep her home. She was a slippery girl, got past the so-called professionals whenever she wanted. By the time they got her under control, I guess Randy figured it was too late to go back and look. I still blame him, though, because he never should have left his son's body there to begin with."

David sat forward, leaning on his arms, putting the pleasantries of his environment out of his mind as he placed his full concentration on Smith. "Did they end up having the funeral?"

"Yes, they did." Smith leaned forward, too, his head lowered to meet David's. "Melinda didn't believe Randy at first, what with his insisting they have a closed casket and all. But when I looked her in the eye and told her the baby was dead, handing her the death certificate as I said it, she believed me, her doctor and friend for so many years. And I hated myself for doing it. Stopped seeing her after that - it was too hard talking to her knowing I had lied." Smith shrugged. "But I knew it was for the best. Mel needed to get over the death of that baby and everything it represented. "

"And it represented a continuation of their lineage? That was really so important to her?" David had a hard time believing that during an era of such social upheaval, a young Melinda had clung to such archaic ideas.

"Yeah, but we're really talking about Randy's lineage. He was a step or two above Mel in social class, if you know what I mean. She didn't believe she had anything else to offer him except to be the repository of his namesake. Was it really that important to her?" Smith set his jaw before answering. "It sure was. From the moment she became pregnant, she insisted she was having a boy, his boy. I don't think a little girl would have done her any good. Only a boy carries on the family name, and that really was important to her, that she could do that one thing for Randy."

David took some time to think this over. From what Smith was saying, Thompson must have had three specific obsessions during her life : first was her husband, second was the need to have his child, and, third, though originally brief, was Don. Maybe that obsessive need for her husband was why she had renewed her interest in Don. When her husband died two years before, she may have needed to seek out someone to replace him. Since she could not have any children, Don was the only one of her original obsessions available to her, and then she had fortuitously run into him at the alternative health clinic, maybe seeing the meeting as a sign that she could still fulfill her destiny and provide a son to her husband . David realized that the meeting between them might have been the exact point at which Thompson's obsession with him began anew, which would be especially true if she already knew her husband was going to die. It also indicated that Thompson may have been planning to take Don for a long time. This worried David, because he knew the woman was smart and should have been better prepared to keep Don to herself. Yet, they had found him within two months, and, though the charges hadn't stuck, arrested her. It made him think that she had other plans in store for his friend.

Putting aside these concerns, David observed, "Then I guess that's why she had a hard time accepting the baby's death, since it was the little boy she had wanted so badly."

"To be honest, I don't know if the baby was a boy or not."

David couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Wait a minute, didn't Randy tell you it was a boy?"

"No, he never said if it was one or the other. And Mel never saw the baby; when I asked about it, Randy said the midwife had gotten it out of her and immediately covered it in a blanket when she saw it was dead. When I probed a bit more, he admitted that the midwife didn't say anything about the sex to him, or to anyone else; they had been in too much of a hurry to get Mel to the hospital to be concerned about that- after all, what difference did it make, it was dead either way. I only wrote down 'boy' on the death certificate because Mel's mindset was that she had had one, and I knew she wouldn't believe me if I had written that it had been a girl."

David pushed this new information to the back of his head, not sure if it would make a difference in the long run. Deciding to wrap up their conversation, he asked about the funeral. "So, the casket was empty?"

"Yeah, that's exactly what it was."

"How'd they get that fact past the funeral home director?"

"Didn't get it past him- just paid him a little moolah to remain quiet about it. Maybe more than a little, but whatever amount it was, it was enough to give it a final resting place over at Sunshine Cemetery, down at the end of Elm Street." Smith scratched his chin, thinking. "If I'm right, and I'm sure that I am, the same boy that used to oversee the grave digging is now owner of the place. Smart kid- went away to college, made some money, and came back home. Told me once he loved the smell of freshly overturned dirt; creepy kid, too, I guess."

Smith stood up and walked to the edge of the patio, his garden beginning just at its edge. He knelt and sniffed several roses, closing his eyes briefly. When he returned to his seat, he felt refreshed. "Me, I prefer flowers. Figure when I'm gone I'll be spending more than enough time smelling dirt."

With that, David thanked the old man for his honest answers, and then asked for directions to Sunshine Cemetery, which were freely given. Before he left, David asked one more question.

"This friend that helped Thompson out- do you recall his name?"

"Sure," Smith nodded his head, " Don't know his last name, but his first was Alfalfa, like on that kid's show way back when. Don't suppose you remember it?"

"No, it was probably before my time."

"I suppose there's not much in my life that wasn't before your time," Smith grinned.

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While David was busy interviewing Dr. Mark Smith, Colby was busy standing in line at the county treasurer's office located in Santa Rosa. Clerks were hurriedly shuffling through paper files while their computer screens sat blank. Patiently waiting for his turn, Colby thought about the response of the police in Sonoma Valley.

The night before, the first police officer he had talked to had been a young and by-the-rules upstart who had politely told him to sit in the corner and begin filling out forms. Luckily, an older officer had intervened, the same one who had allowed Colby to use their fax earlier, and he had listened to the agent explain his concerns about Caleb. Having been around Sonoma Valley almost as far back as the commune, and also familiar with the eccentric woman who never left her home, the officer had immediately begun the procedures necessary to gather together a search party. By seven that morning, Colby had left the police station, watching in his rear view mirror as several cars and trucks full of volunteers had sped in the opposite direction, heading for Caleb's farm. He had received a promise from the older officer that he would personally call Colby the moment they found anything.

That is, Colby thought as he drove away,_ if_ they found anything.

When it was his turn at the counter, Colby handed the address of Caleb's farmhouse to the woman, and asked her if she could give him a copy of the tax records. Flustered by the layers of files piled around the office and her desk, it took the woman nearly fifteen minutes to find them. She made a copy of the file and brought it back to Colby, requesting that he pay a two-dollar charge. After receiving his receipt, Colby took the papers and went outside, flipping through them till he found the list of dates that the taxes had been paid, and who had paid them.

He shoved the papers into his pants pocket and narrowed his eyes as he thought, _Looks like I've got a long drive ahead of me_.


	46. What Truth He Unburied

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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"You know I'm a very patient person, Gordon. But you promised to call me early this morning, and I could not wait any longer to hear from you."

"I apologize, Melinda. I'm afraid that I am quite tired today, and am recuperating from the exertions of last night."

"Yes, dear, my heart goes out to you. But I believe it would be better to address our current topic before we go too far astray."

"Oh, most certainly."

Silence.

"Well, Gordon, as to the small gnat that was buzzing around my son?"

"I've heard that someone swatted him last night- it was quite a mess, so I am told. But I suspect that it is no surprise to you, as you have access to so many fly swatters and know how effective they can be in ridding one of pests."

"Why, Gordon, you are excessive in estimating my reach."

"I don't believe I have ever been excessive in any of my determinations, Melinda."

"Well, there shall be no further dispute as long as the opinion is kept between friends"

Pause.

"And what of that other concern we discussed yesterday?"

"I personally saw to it, Melinda, have no doubt."

"Gordon, it is not that I doubt you. It's just that I was concerned that you weren't up to doing the job yourself."

"I do not attend to any job that I think it best for someone else to handle. In this case, I wanted to see for myself that the problem was _solved_."

"And how well did you _solve_ this little problem?"

"Let's just say that some things are better left buried."

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David Sinclair stepped across the rough stones marking the path to a small, shingled ranch house, his car sitting on a flattened patch of grass that was used as a parking lot in front of the aging building. Small crosses poked up from the ground beyond the house, dotting the hillside as far as his eyes could see, mausoleums of varying sizes asserting their domination amongst the smaller symbols of respect and religion, no discernable pattern to their placement. A wrought-iron fence circled from the back of the house, edging a thin line around the cemetery. David walked to the door of the house, and after he saw that there was a sign hanging on it that said 'Office-Come On In', he opened it and entered, walking into the dimness beyond.

A silver bell sat on a dark wooden desk set in the middle of the small room. David tapped it twice, taking stock of the place as he waited for someone to appear. All four walls were covered in floor-to-ceiling bookcases, filled to capacity with binders, loose files, and thick cast-iron pots and pans. In between these objects, numerous stuffed crows looked out over the room, guarding it from unknown intruders, keeping watch with black and white photos of people dressed in Victorian garb besides them on the shelves. The only breaks in the thick mahogany of the bookcases were two solid doors, the first being the one David had entered through, the second one closed and located at the back of the room.

Besides the bell, the desk contained more files and binders, two large ashtrays filled with cigar buttes, an array of picture frames facing away from the door, a small shaded desk lamp, scattered pens and clips, and several large brown stones that seemed to serve no purpose. David idly picked up a frame from the desk and looked at the photo it contained. He was surprised to be holding an aerial view of a recently plowed field, the richness of the earth so apparent it reminded him how his grandmother used to visit and tell him stories about growing up on a farm, swearing to her grandson that the Midwest might not have oil, but it did have black gold. Having been raised in an urban area back east, David had always wondered how that could be. He found the picture he held in his hand explained it better than any verbal description his grandmother had given him.

When no one came, David put down the picture and rang the bell a second time, peering about the room. The only light came from the desk lamp and the door he had left ajar behind him, so the room was muggy and poorly lit, shadows muddled in the corners of the room. Curious about the pots and pans on the shelves of the bookcases, David walked over to one and looked at its contents. A chill went up his spine when he realized that it was filled to its brim with dirt. Cautiously putting a finger inside the pot, he felt that it was damp and could smell an earthy scent when he broke its thin upper layer.

"May I help you?"

David jumped. He quickly pulled his hand from the pot and turned around to see the man that went with the voice. A short, bald rotund man stood behind the desk, his hands clasped in front of him. He appeared to be in his late sixties, the paleness of his skin accented by the black turtleneck and jeans he was wearing, thick bifocals shoved against his face, smudges of dirt on his forehead and left cheek. David wondered briefly why the man wasn't breaking a sweat, especially because there was not so much as a fan in the tiny office, and definitely not any air conditioning.

"I said- may I help you?" the man repeated, crinkling his nose.

"Oh, I'm sorry." David held out his badge and offered his hand, noting the other man's limp grip and icy cold skin when the man shook it. "I'm Special Agent David Sinclair, with the F.B.I."

"Oh, it's nice to meet you Agent Sinclair. I'm Terra Firma. But you can call me Terra."

He has got to be kidding, David thought as he did a mind-roll of his eyes. "Interesting name, Terra. Oh, and you can call me David."

"Fine, David." Terra offered David a seat, and then sat behind the desk himself. "Of course, the uniqueness of my name was my own decision. I have a _firm _belief that people should choose their own names. After all, how did your parents know you were a David before they even knew who _you _were? You might actually be a Bart or a Caesar or even a Biff."

"I don't know about that Terra. I think my parents made the right choice in deciding from day one that I was never going to be a Biff." David frowned as he watched the cemetery director run a hand lovingly over the picture he himself had just been holding. He hated to think the man touched it like that all the time. Without thinking, David wiped his hands on his slacks.

"Biff may have been a poor example. But from your strong stance, I think Caesar would most definitely be appropriate." Terra pulled his hand from the picture and sat back. "Now, let me ask once again, David, can I help you? If you're looking for a burial plot, I'm afraid that I have limited space available."

"No, actually I'm here about a grave that has already been dug- I believe about thirty-five years ago, give or take a month or two." David squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. Terra had wiped the dirt from his cheek and was licking his fingers, as if consuming the remains of a chocolate bar. "Uh, the name was Thompson." When Terra next swiped a finger through the black smudge on his forehead, it was too hard for David to not show disgust on his own face, so he sprang from his seat and, as casually as possible, walked to the nearest bookcase, pretending to be thoroughly absorbed in the crow propped before him.

Having finished with cleaning his face, Terra remarked, "Thompson's a pretty common name. Do you have any other information you can give me?"

"Yes," David said loudly, wanting Terra to hear him but not wanting to turn around quite yet. "It was a baby, and its parents were Randy and Melinda Thompson. Don't know the name of the child itself."

David heard rustling behind him. Hoping Terra was busy with books and not the remains of any more dirt on his bodily parts, he turned back to face the desk. Thankfully, Terra was going through a large binder filled with one thick section of old, yellowed paper and another with newer sheets of white.

"I'll look up the records for you," Terra said as he scoured the pages before him, "but I already know who you're talking about. This is a small town. Everybody knows Dr. Thompson and her hubby. Randy just died a little over two years ago." Terra's eyes looked up through the upper half of his glasses. "Cancer, you know, awful way to go."

Not wanting to get too close to Terra, David stayed near the bookcase. "So, Randy Thompson was buried here?"

"He wasn't buried," Terra explained, "but entombed."

David further asked, "Was his child also entombed?"

"Ah, here we go." Terra shoved the binder across the desk at David, but didn't answer the question.

Moving slowly, David approached the desk and bent over, stretching his arm forward in order to turn the binder around so it faced him, but trying to keep as far away from Terra as possible. A tip of a thick white finger appeared on the yellowed page, pointing out an entry. David was taken aback when he read what it said: Don Adam Thompson.

David became aware of why Terra wasn't sweating; a natural frost was in possession of the room. It bothered David to no end that the Thompsons had named their dead baby after his friend.

'That's the Thompson baby. I oversaw the opening of the family mausoleum. Rich people, those Thompsons were, had the best casket and seal for the baby you could buy at the time. Really wasn't surprising to find it was in near-perfect shape when we pulled it out of its resting place." Terra picked up a rock from his desk and began rubbing it between his hands.

"You moved the baby?' David asked, willing himself to keep his eyes on the written words before him, and not on the wormlike fingers working their way over the rock less than six feet from where he stood.

"We sure did. It was at Dr. Thompson's request. When she knew her husband was going to die, she started making plans for the baby and his father to be together, but she was distressed to learn that if she placed Randy next to the baby in the Thompson mausoleum, there would have been no room left for her when she died. So, she comes traipsing in here and buys another plot of land, telling me she's going to have a mausoleum built for their family alone. Wanted it to be big enough for the three of them- her, the baby, and Randy. If you go outside and look up the hill, that big one at the upper left corner belongs to the Thompsons."

"That's where you moved the baby- to this new mausoleum?" David moved back to the nearest bookcases, ignoring the crow's beak poking over his shoulder. He had found that the company of the stuffed bird was more attractive than the living man across the room from him.

Terra put the rock down on the desk. He held his hands together and rubbed them as if he were washing them with the dust from the rock. "No, we actually ended up leaving the casket in its original site. You see, a baby's casket is tiny, so all we had to do was crack the seal on the tomb, open the door and remove it. Only, one of my guys dropped the casket as he was hauling it out. Don't know if my former boss didn't set the lid right or what, but in any case, it failed to hold shut when it fell. Could've heard the proverbial pin drop when that casket flew open and we all realized the thing was empty- not even a hint that bones had ever been laid inside. Poor Dr. Thompson- she was all beside herself. I thought she lost it there for a second."

"What do you mean when you say 'lost it'?" David asked. He crossed his arms as protection against the weird vibes Terra's actions were sending his way.

"Oh, you know- the usual; ranting and raving, throwing her arms about, saying a bunch of crazy stuff about a conspiracy. When she finally calmed down, she just stood there all stiff, staring off into space, real creepy-like. I hate to admit it, but when people are like that, it really gets to me." Terra shuddered. "It took me a while to get up enough nerve to stand near her. And when I did, I could hear her whispering something, more like a chant than anything else."

"What was she saying?"

"I'm not sure. It sounded something like, 'Lies, all lies.' When I touched her shoulder, she went silent. I didn't know what to say, so I just apologized for what happened and she said, as if it were no big deal, that it was all for the best. I thought we had everything all squared away when she told us to put the casket back- which we did- and she walked away. But then all of a sudden, a couple days later, she comes in and tells me she's going to remove the mausoleum she had already placed here. I thought she was going to demand I give her some kind of compensation for what happened with the casket, maybe ask me to return the money she had paid for the new plot of land. Turns out she just wanted to put in a different type of mausoleum. If you want to see the final results, and the place where Randy is resting, we can go through the back of my house and I'll take you to it."

David balked at going any further into Terra's domain, so he politely told him he would meet him around back. Terra came out his back door as David came around the corner of the house, then both men headed up the hill. As they neared the mausoleum, David took note of its construction.

The mausoleum was a long rectangle built of grey granite, about fifteen feet in height and twelve in length, its face comprised of smooth, shiny black stone that was portioned into three sections, each one a square door; two were on the bottom next to each other, while one rested on top and centered between the two below it, each of the three presumably made to hold one body. A cross with the name _Thompson_ carved into it was placed on its roof. David noticed the mausoleum was not bolted to the ground, but appeared to be held in place by its own weight.

"She had it special-delivered, that is, after she had the other one removed." Terra worked hard at keeping pace with the younger and fit agent, but found he was winded by the time they were almost to the top of the hill, so he stopped, catching his breath. David waited for him, aware that the older man might not climb up and down the hill very often, and not wanting to overexert him. As they rested, Terra said, "It's steel-reinforced, believe it or not, under the granite.'

"It looks like it's built for three people. What's the difference between this one and the one she got rid of?" David began to walk again, only at a slower pace than before. Terra fell in step beside him.

"Oh, that's simple. The other mausoleum was built for two people, not three. Like I said, the casket of a baby is tiny; Don Thompson's was really not much bigger than a storage box." David grimaced, feeling as if Terra was talking about his friend. Not seeing David's reaction, the old man kept talking. "Dr.Thompson had that first mausoleum customized, so that a small space was built in between the two larger ones, to fit the baby's casket in. For some reason, she decided she needed this mausoleum instead, with enough room for three _adults._ Which I thought was strange at first, because as far as I know, she and Randy never had any other children."

David and Terra arrived at the mausoleum. Stepping directly in front of its doors, David read the individual names on each one: to the left, _Randal Thoreau Thompson-Beloved Husband and Father; _to the right, _Melinda Ursula Tammery Thompson-Beloved Wife and Mother, _and not surprisingly, the one on top, _Don Adam Thompson-Beloved Son._ David decided that if there had been any doubt in his mind that Dr. Thompson was set on keeping Don, then the presence of the tomb was enough to wipe it away, because it was apparent that the woman had purchased the granite prison with the specific intention of spending the rest of eternity with him, whether he liked it or not.

As David stepped back, Terra said behind him, "After I saw that Dr. Thompson had put her baby's name on that vault, I got to thinking, since there was no body in that casket, maybe her son never died at all. Maybe he was alive somewhere. She must have been thinking the same thing, that's why she's prepared a full-sized resting place for him- 'cause he would be an adult by now."

David didn't respond, just headed down the hill, Terra trailing behind him. "Hey, I never did ask why the F.B.I. would be interested in all this."

David halted. He didn't want to have to explain, so he told Terra, "I'm not at liberty to say."

"Oh, it's that secretive," Terra observed. They got to the bottom of the hill and walked around to the front of the house. David thanked him for his time and began to climb into his car. But Terra stopped him. "If this has to do with her son being alive, well, I like Dr. Thompson. Wish her good luck for me, you know, in getting a hold of her son."

David stared at the man, but didn't respond out loud. Instead, he dropped into the driver's seat as he thought _I don't think it likely that I will._

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Thursday morning in the Eppes home found all three men sitting tiredly on the living room couch, none of them wanting to move. Don's nightmares had kept them up once again and they were so drained that Charlie had considered delaying the aqua therapy till the afternoon, if possible. But then Larry showed up at the front door and rallied the troops, helping Alan get out the door to visit the courts once again, and providing a moral boost to Don and Charlie, exciting the one about seeing his therapist and praising the other about his foresight in preparing the laptop case with his brother's necessities, which lit up the younger man's face and compelled him to discover a new reservoir of energy as he described its contents to his friend.

When they pulled into the parking lot of the institute, all three men were hesitant to leave the car. Charlie gingerly took the first step out, looking around for nefarious men and women, chiding himself for being overprotective in the same way that he had been accusing his father, but not able to control his need to make sure there was nobody about that would hurt his brother. When he had checked all the nearby cars to his satisfaction, Charlie hustled Don into the institute, a frazzled Larry bounding behind him lugging the laptop case, its weight feeling as if it was equal to his own.

"Don, how is my favorite soldier this morning," Jim yelped as they entered the locker room next to the pool. His greeting was answered with a yawn. "Uh, oh- no sleeping on duty. Rise and shine my sleeping beauty." Jim lifted Don's arms up and down, flapping them lightly at his sides. "Be prepared to earn your wings today, because you're going to be flying through your exercises." Don giggled, remembering how much fun Jim could be and how he'd help keep him from the Badman.

Sashaying over to a locker, Jim unlocked it and bent his body to the side, his hand over his head pointing to its contents. Jim winked at Charlie, who walked over and listened to the therapist's explanation of how to dress his brother for the pool. When he finished, he gave Don one salute and jiggled all the way to the exit, then stopped and warned Charlie, "No fun time past this door. Hold on to Don, one of you on either side. The pool area can be slippery and I don't want him to fall." With that, he glided away.

"Unusual man," Larry observed, "almost a dual persona, the way he switches from one expressive state to the other."

"Yeah," Charlie said, starting to undress Don. "Unusual is right."

Larry sat down on the end of the bench, waiting while Charlie began to undo Don's pants. Charlie was sliding down the zipper of Don's jeans when he abruptly stopped. He looked up at Don and could see that he was oblivious to Larry's presence, no shame or embarrassment on his face that he was being undressed by his brother in front of another man. Thinking about what he had discussed with his father the day before, that it was the way Don had to be babied that would cause him the most pain when he regained his awareness of self, Charlie faced Larry.

"I think you better wait outside while I take care of Don. I'll call you in when he's ready."

"Oh, I'm sorry Charles," Larry went to leave.

"It's not you," Charlie tried to explain, "I don't want Don to think I let anyone see him naked when I had the option not to."

"Charles, I understand perfectly. It is well within your right to protect Don's privacy. I'll be directly outside the door if you need me." Larry pressed through the door, leaving Charlie and Don alone.

Having become adept at undressing Don, it did not take Charlie long to shed him of his clothes. He was slowed in redressing him, though, when he picked up the waterproof protection that Jim had shown to him and had briefly explained how to put it on his brother. It looked more like a baby's diaper than the briefs that Don usually wore. Made of red nylon on the outside and thick cotton padding within, its sides rose higher on the leg for more mobility. After fastening it around Don, Charlie pulled a regular pair of swimming trunks up Don's legs, adjusting the trunks until they looked like they were the only things he was wearing, the waterproof diaper carefully hidden underneath.

"All right, Larry. We're ready," Charlie called, putting an arm through one of his brother's. Larry came in, saw how Charlie was holding on to Don, and took up the same position on the opposite side.

"Buddy," Don said when they started to walk towards the door. Charlie scooped up the rabbit and they headed out to the pool.

Fifty minutes later, Charlie and Larry continued to maintain their positions clinging to Don's arms. Buddy was pressed against Don's chest and he was shaking his head 'no', a motion he had been doing almost continually for the better part of the hour. He would not get into the therapeutic pool.

"Come on, Don," Jim pleaded, sitting on the side of the pool with his arms raised for the hundredth time, "just for a minute. It will be really fun."

Don continued to shake his head, lowering his chin and pushing Buddy up to his cheek for reinforcement. His best friend was the only who knew what happened with Mommy, how he had fallen in the bathtub and almost drowned. He knew Charlie could hold him when he got into the tub at their house, but he was right by his side the whole time. The pool was just too big and he was afraid if he fell again, it would take Charlie too long to get to him and he would have no way to get out from under the water. And this time, he really would drown.

Jim pushed up from the pool and stood. "Well, that's that. If he doesn't do better next week, I think we can forget about this aspect of his therapy."

"Wait," Charlie said, "Can't we try it one more time."

"No, we don't want to force him. This is not just exercise for him, Charlie, it's supposed to be emotionally therapeutic. If getting in the pool causes him stress, it defeats the purpose and can even make his emotional stability worse." Jim walked them back to the locker room. Charlie asked Larry to wait with Don inside so he could have a few words with the therapist. Larry readily agreed.

"Isn't there anything we can do?" Charlie didn't want to give up on any portion of Don's therapy, especially one that was designed to decrease his anxiety; Charlie had hoped that its positive effects would carry over to bedtime, and enable Don to sleep through the night. Or, at least reduce the number of nightmares he was having.

"Well, he seems afraid of the water. Has he had any problems getting in the tub at home?"

"No, not that I have seen." Charlie thought about the different times he had given Don a bath since his brother had come home. "Except for the first time he took a bath, when he didn't know me; my dad had to bathe him that time. But since then, Don hasn't show any fear or indicated that he is uncomfortable in any way."

"Hmmm." Jim trotted back to the side of the pool and reached into the water. When he returned, he handed Charlie three plastic rings. "Maybe you can practice with these at home, in the bathtub. Put on his trunks and the protective swimwear, so he understands he's not taking a bath but is doing some more therapy. It might be enough to prepare him for next week."

Charlie looked the rings over. "These are for practicing gripping. I have a lot of things at home for that already, and I've ordered a lot more. To be honest, I was hoping Don would receive the emotional benefits of the aqua therapy- he's been having nightmares the last two nights."

"I'm sorry about that, Charlie. I guess Monday night affected him more than I thought," Jim said apologetically.

"It wasn't your fault. Actually, we haven't had time to thank you and Olivia for all that you did. I was remiss in not saying that when we first saw you today." Charlie slid the rings up his arm.

"Please, don't thank us. I didn't do anything and I think Olivia had more fun kicking that guy than she's had in a long time."

"I think I would have enjoyed it even more." Charlie stated with certainty. "But Don didn't enjoy any part of that eveninng. He's stuck with the aftereffects, and his stress level continues to increase."

"Really, if the goal is to release stress, the exercises aren't required. All Don needs is some hot, gently lapping water and a soothing atmosphere. You probably provide that every morning with his bath. Try doing this later in the day and see if it helps him sleep. Not everybody can afford these therapy sessions, and you wouldn't be the first to have to make-do with what's available at home; which might be your only option, too, because if Don is still afraid to get into the pool next week, I'm afraid I will have to insist that we cancel."

Charlie thanked Jim and entered the locker room, his thoughts on what the therapist had said about people having to make do with what they had at home. Charlie dressed Don and then they joined Larry outside, got in the car after a careful military scan of the parking lot, and were heading for home when Charlie decided he didn't have enough to 'make-do'. He made a detour and pulled in front of a toy store. He asked Larry to watch Don and then he bolted inside. Larry kept his eyes pinned to the rearview mirror as he fulfilled his obligation, and listened to the quiet snoring coming from the man sitting slumped in the back seat. It wasn't long before Charlie reappeared, and Larry helped him store his purchases in the trunk of the car, the older man approving of the reasoning he saw in buying them. Then, they were off, heading towards home once again.

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It was late afternoon when Colby pulled into the parking lot three blocks from the office building located in a prime section of L. A. The agent jogged down the street, knowing it was almost four o'clock and near the time many workers called it quits for the day. He kept a quick pace, as he didn't want to miss Alfie through the simple fluke of arriving a few minutes too late. When he entered the building, a security officer directed him to a bank of elevators. Colby entered the first one to open and pressed the button marked with a twenty, not in the least impressed that Alfie had purchased an entire floor for himself. He had already figured the man had to be wealthy from the first time Caleb mentioned that he was the one paying her property taxes. Colby had assumed they were high considering she was right in the middle of wine country, and after all, it was California; however, he had been wrong in his estimation by over two hundred per cent, leaving him to wonder what Alfie's net worth actually was.

When the doors to the elevator opened, Colby was greeted by a receptionist who asked if he had an appointment. He glibly replied, "Yes, here is the card I was given." Then he held out his badge. Without replying, the woman walked into a back room and left him standing. Less than sixty seconds later she reappeared and led him down a hall to an office, opening the door for him and indicating he should sit.

"He'll be with you momentarily," she said when leaving.

Colby sat on the edge of the chair, not sure what approach to take during his interrogation. Feeling as if he had been left in a cavern, Colby let his eyes roam over the room, assessing its appearance and what it said about its owner. The office was large, at least a thousand square feet, a long distance between the chair he sat in and the large cherry-wood desk before him. Colby assumed, correctly, that it was to make the man behind the desk appear large and overbearing, while the man in front would feel diminutive and weak. It almost had that effect on Colby, so he got up from his seat and took the liberty of walking around.

The walls of the room matched the wood of the desk, and gleamed from a recent polishing; a side door to Colby's left was set flushed with the wall, almost seamlessly. There were no adornments on the walls, not even the obligatory generic painting, though Colby would have expected an original- a Picasso or Van Gogh, maybe. Behind the desk, there was a bank of windows through which Colby could see parts of downtown L.A. It would be impossible for him to say it was an impressive view, because he had never thought much of the city's skyline.

As he dared to walk near the man's desk, Colby wondered at the bareness of the room. Other than the two chairs, the desk was the only other furniture in the room and its focal point no matter where you stood. The desk itself was limited in its possessions, with only five objects sitting on top: a phone, a desk pad with blotter paper, a pen, a small lamp, and a picture frame tilted towards the owner's chair. Curious, Colby took a step forward and carefully picked up the frame, his heart skipping a beat when he saw the photo within:

two people, a man in his mid-thirties, wearing a tie-dyed shirt, and a woman of twenty, wearing wildflowers in her hair, both sitting on the ground cross-legged, their arms around each other, his blond mustache and beard pressed against the much-taller woman's braids, a field of alfalfa all around them.

Colby was taken with how beautiful Caleb had been at the age of twenty. He felt as if he had fallen in love the moment he set his eyes on her youthful form, a twinge of guilt marring the feeling as he chastised himself once again for leaving her alone the night before. He gently placed the picture back where he had found it, and obstinately leaned against the desk. When the door across from him finally opened, he stood upright in his finest military pose, watching as Alfie scuffled across the hardwood floor and took his position behind the desk.

His thoughts on Caleb and her safety, Colby had decided a confrontation was in order. He placed his palms down flat on the desk and pressed all of his weight on them, and then he leaned forward inches from Alfie, anger and threats shading his eyes, menace in his voice.

"All right, Fairfield. What the hell did you do with Caleb!"


	47. How She Tied Them Down

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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Alan came home and started looking through the house for his sons; more specifically, Don. It hadn't been a good day at court. The judge had refused the restraining order, stating something about there being no established relationship between his son and Dr. Thompson, no evidence she had been in contact with him for almost two weeks, and, well, the woman lives four hours away in an entirely different city- her choice in locating herself that far away was a strain on her ability to see him to begin with. Alan had taken the news hard, feeling as if it was a sign of things to come.

Having been denied protection by the court, Alan felt the need to see Don was safe. While he checked upstairs, Alan smiled to himself, thinking about the looks Larry had given him now and then the day before. Alan was sure that Charlie wanted the scientist to observe his interactions with Don, to see if he was overreacting and hovering over him too much; he felt it ironic, though, that he had seen Larry making mental notes about Charlie's interactions with Don, too, something that his youngest son seemed completely unaware of happening. He wondered what conclusions the scientist had made about all of their behavior.

Alan walked downstairs and headed to the kitchen, frowning. Where are they? He was beginning to worry but then he saw his garden hose connected to the sink, and followed it out through the back door, down the stairs to the back yard. He smiled when he found his boys, reminded of the times when they were younger and had played in the summers, Margaret in the water with them.

"What prompted you to do this?" he asked, standing beside the shallow swimming pool.

Charlie and Don smiled up at him while Larry concentrated on maintaining his grip on Don. It wasn't much of a pool, only four feet deep and twelve across, but it was big enough for Don to lie on his back and float. And from the number of flotation devices attached to his body, he couldn't help but float. Charlie had snapped a full-size personal flotation device around his chest, and then covered his arms and legs with foam disks; to keep his head out of the water, his neck was resting on the thickly-cushioned edge of the pool. Larry and Charlie were kneeling on either side of Don, holding him steady, but Alan had to wonder how they could possibly think there was even an inkling of a chance that he would sink.

"He was afraid to get in the pool at the institute, so I thought if he could see that it was safe to go in one, it wouldn't be a problem next week." Charlie held his right hand near Don's head while he moved his left one back and forth over the water.

"And how do you plan to have him do exercises when he's all bundled up like this?" Alan noted.

"Well, I figured we would take a few off each day, until he could see that he was safe without them. I'm hoping he'll be flotation-device-free by next week."

"If the weather holds, I think this just might work." Alan was looking at a tree nearby that was shading the pool. "Wouldn't it have been warmer if you'd placed the pool in the sun?"

"Maybe, but the warnings on his meds state that he needs to stay out of the sun, hence our position under the tree. When the water gets too cold, one of us runs inside and turns on the sink- voila, hot water. Besides, it must be over ninety out- I doubt we'll freeze."

Keeping a firm grip on Don, Larry and Charlie rested their heads on the pool's thick air-filled edge. Larry closed his eyes and invited, "You should join us, Alan. It really is quite relaxing. Even Buddy seems to be enjoying himself."

For the first time, Alan noticed the rabbit. He remarked to Charlie, "I think you better be careful; you seem like you're becoming as attached to him as Don is." Buddy was sitting on a small doll's chair, foam attached at the bottom. His head was squeezed into a pair of goggles, a snorkel was wrapped around his mouth, and a pair of flippers just barely clung to his feet.

Charlie made a face. "I was only thinking of making Don happy. Besides, he deserved a break, too."

Don tried to nod his head in agreement. Then he closed his eyes and serenely floated, his previous fears drifted away.

Alan ran his fingers through the water, listening as it lapped against the side of the pool. He became conscious that there were the fine strains of piano music playing softly nearby, keeping time with the movement of the water. He went around the pool and found a portable tape player. He recognized the music. Stopping the machine, he clicked open the device and looked at the tape. In his late wife's small print were the names of her four favorite concert pieces, and he realized these were recordings that he'd made of her playing when Don was in kindergarten and right after Charlie was born.

Alan was about to ask Charlie where he had found it, then remembered his son's forage through his mother's boxes. Somehow, the tape must have landed in one of them along with her clothes. Alan snapped it back into place and turned the music on. Then he went inside to get his swimsuit. On his way back, he stopped to fill a pitcher with Kool-aide and grab three glasses and a sippy cup, a habit from summers over twenty years before. He set them on a nearby table and slid into the pool, working his way to a position across from Don and Charlie, then laying his head on one of the billowy edges of the pool. When he closed his eyes, the sound of his sons' relaxed breathing and the tender music allowed him to imagine Margaret was there with them. Every now and then, his feet brushed those of his sons and he grinned; when Don told him to stop, he stretched out further and prodded Don's toes with his own, the combination of piano chords and his giggling son helping him sink into pleasant memories of his past.

"You're mother always loved this music," Alan sighed.

"She did?" Don responded.

Alan was brought back to the present, when their lives were no longer as innocent of summers long passed. Missing his wife, and fed up with the courts, Alan felt as if he'd had enough of Dr. Melinda Thompson's presence in their lives. He came to the conclusion that even if Don became confused or stressed, discussing the memories of his real mother and allowing her back into his life could not possibly hurt him any more than him being assaulted every night by his recent memories of Dr. Thompson. He was sure that it was worth the risk of upsetting Don to talk about his real mother, especially since Don had remembered Val the day before.

"Yes, Don, she did. She would sit at the piano in the living room and play for hours when you and Charlie were little. Do you remember?"

"I don't know…What else?"

"She sat at the dining room table with you and colored pictures in books. Outside, you two would cover the front driveway with chalk, just like Charlie's, only it was different colors- blue and red and green. At night, she would throw a blanket around you and you'd both stay up watching old monster movies. And then afterwards, she'd let you sleep between us because you were always scared." Alan's voice began to crack as he continued, "Whenever you fell down, she'd kiss your scrapes and make them better, she would stay next to your bed when you were sick, and she would cover you with her body when sudden storms started up, protecting you from the rain."

Alan opened his eyes and crouched in the pool, pushing toward Charlie and Don. When he was near them, he emphasized, "And she never, ever hit you- not even once."

Don listened closely to the description of his mother. She sounded like Mommy, how she took care of him. But there was something not quite right about what his daddy was saying, especially about her not hitting him. Something wasn't right, but he didn't know what it was.

"I remember Mom, too," Charlie chimed in. "She always made you pancakes, because they were your favorite. When you played baseball, she stood in the stands and cheered for you. When you had homework, she would sit at the table for hours until you got it done. And I know she never hurt us, not even unintentionally. Everything she told us was good. She thought we were the best boys in the world."

Alan and Charlie talked back and forth about Margaret Eppes while Don listened and tried to fit their picture of his mommy over the one that he had in his mind. He was confused, because though they overlapped, they didn't quite fit.

When the sun started to lower and it was dinnertime, they left the pool and went inside, Larry offering to cover it. While they ate, Charlie asked Don if he had any new memories about their mom.

"Just…she was nice…when she played."

"Played with us?" Charlie asked.

"No, the music."

"Maybe you can picture her when she was nice like that, tonight when you go to bed. Then that's how you'll dream about her."

Don didn't think Charlie's suggestion would work, but when it was bedtime, he tried anyway. When he laid his head on the pillows, he pictured Mommy doing all the nice things they had told him about. In the midst of this mental effort, he briefly opened his eyes because he heard the piano music from that afternoon wafting from the direction of the dresser. Charlie smiled at him and said that he was going to dream the same nice thoughts about their mom, too, and that if both of them wished for that image of their mom to appear, she was the one who would visit that night.

Their wish came true, only Don didn't know it.

Don did not wake up even once. When Charlie was getting him dressed the next day, he asked Don if Mom had been nice in his dreams, just like she had been in his.

"No, Charlie."

As he pulled a sock onto Don's foot, Charlie asked, "But you didn't wake up at all last night, Don. She must have been nice."

"Mommy didn't come…last night."

"No?" Charlie asked, listening intently.

"No, Charlie…only…"

"Only what, Don?"

"A strange lady…did, Charlie…an angel…"

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Megan, Colby and David were sitting in a conference room once again, going over everything they had learned the past few days about Melinda Thompson.

"He didn't deny that he took Caleb, but he refused to tell me where she is," Colby was sitting with dire frustration consuming him. He had been recounting his meeting with Gordon (Alfie) Fairfield the day before. "And I'm having mixed feelings about his actions, because I think the reason he took her from the farm was to protect her against Thompson. Only, of course, now all we have is a lot of story and nobody to appear in court to tell it."

"Well, we do have _some_ information that the Thompson's doctor can talk about, and combined with what the cemetary director had to say, we have a way to tell some of the story, even if not all of it. As for Fairfield's actions, I haven't talked to Nadine since that whole Jackson affair," Megan said, "but knowing what was going to happen to that perv might have been enough to convince Fairfield that Whitehall was no longer safe. So, I guess the guy at least has the semblance of a heart. I just wished he'd use it to help go after Thompson, instead of helping her. If the police had been able to find any evidence Fairfield had been at her farm, that might have gone a long way in forcing him to speak because we could have charged him with obstruction."

"Well, personally," Colby said, "I'm beginning to wonder exactly what they were smoking back then, because it seems all five of those people have acted screwy about this whole affair."

"So, where do we stand?" David asked, sliding a file around on the table. He had already relayed his interviews and found that his colleagues agreed with two of his observations: one, the mausoleum more than indicated Thompson would never give up, and two, that Thompson's obsession had been refreshed when she found her newborn's casket had been empty all those years. Most importantly, they agreed the woman had other plans in the making, because no one that smart would have allowed Don to escape her so easily.

"Nadine says it is very simple. The law does not allow for us to testify on Whitehall's behalf, but she has confidence that we have enough circumstantial evidence to prosecute - that is, with the addition of Don's testimony. And I talked to Alan this morning- Don got a tiny shard of his memory back, and he thinks they may be making progress in fighting his view of Thompson as his mom. Though, I'm afraid I had to warn them to not think he has been cured overnight. It is just good news that despite everything else that has been happening, we might be making some waves."

Megan did not tell them what else they had talked about. Specifically, the accusations Thompson had made about her signing Don into the institute against his will. Megan had explained to Alan what happened the night Don was admitted, and he had been very understanding, reassuring her that she had done what was necessary. But Megan had been left with a thick feeling of guilt because she knew she had cost Alan custody of his son.

"Well, speak of the devil," David exclaimed, and then waved at Nadine to join them. She stepped in and nodded at each of them, a frown pulling at her face.

"Look, guys, I've got to make this quick." Nadine looked around the side of the door, and then back at the puzzled agents. "Word out is Gordon Fairfield met with Donaldson today, and the director himself is currently meeting with Merrick."

The trio of agents sat upright, suddenly alarmed.

"What could _he_ want?" Megan asked.

"I don't know, but it can't be good." Nadine sighed. "And don't bother bringing me any more information about Dr. Thompson. My boss made his own surprise visit to my office today, and gave me a fifteen minute lecture about harassing innocent citizens. Then, he told me to file away Don's case and move on to other things. And he made it very clear that he meant 'or else'."

Before any of the agents could respond, a secretary appeared behind Nadine. "I've been looking for you guys- Merrick wants to see you in his office." Then she disappeared.

Nadine shook her head as they filed past her. "I guess it's your turn next."

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Director Donaldson stood behind Merrick with his arms crossed. He'd had a long visit with Fairfield earlier in the morning, and he had not been pleased with the information he had been given. Now, the director was no fool. He was abjectly aware that Fairfield had his client's interests at heart, but Donaldson did not like trouble. He knew of Thompson Pharmaceuticals and the influence its namesake had had on the political scene in Southern California. Though long dead, he knew the man's name still held sway in many prominent circles and that power was currently being wielded by Fairfield, as the legal representative of Dr. Melinda Thompson. Donaldson wanted to avoid having the woman's allies join together and launch a public assault, so he decided that it would be much better to allow Fairfield to convince him that his client was being harassed.

Donaldson also knew that he himself had not gotten to his position by allowing those beneath him to do what they wanted as they wanted. And from what Fairfield had told him, he was sure that the behavior of the three agents nervously sitting across from Merrick's desk indicated that they felt they were entitled to do just that. So, Donaldson made a decision when Fairfield left his office. He would assert his administrative control and reign in three of his agents by overloading them with work and in the process stop the pursuit of Fairfield's client, whose case Donaldson _had _looked into and found extremely lacking in evidence. The action would also help Donaldson avoid the risk of the headaches Thompson's influential friends could cause him.

"It has come to my attention that you three have been letting pressing cases go cold and have instead been focusing on one that I thought we had agreed should be put to rest." Donaldson spoke low but firm. He could have been whispering, for that matter, because he definitely had the attention of everyone in the room.

Donaldson picked up a file and tossed it across Merrick's desk so it landed in front of Colby, David and Megan, all three who sat at attention in their seats. "According to this summary of overtime requests, you three spent four days alternating amongst yourselves a stakeout position that just happens to be across the street from the home of Charles Eppes, and which is also the current residence of Agent Don Eppes. Yet these overtime requests fell under five different cases. Now, exactly how many crimes is the F.B.I. investigating on this one particular street? And the answer to that better be_ five_, or we have a serious problem."

Merrick spoke up in their defense. "I am the one who told the agents to sit outside Agent Eppes' home, and I am the one who filed for their overtime. They themselves did not ask for the extra pay."

Donaldson glared at Merrick. He did not want the assistant director to take any of the blame; he thought it less complicated if it were all laid at the feet of their underlings.

"But their signatures are also on the reports, so they are just as responsible for their falsification. I want a mark put against each of them in their work files, and I expect that they will not make any submissions requesting overtime during the next week." The expression on Donaldson's face made it clear he wanted no further interruptions. "I have also checked your current case logs, and none of you have made any progress on even a single case within the past two weeks. This is not surprising in regards to you, Granger, especially considering you called off sick _three _days just this week. May I ask if the doctors are really that much better in wine country?"

Colby refused to meet the director's eyes.

"I also took the liberty of reviewing your work from the past two months. I am perturbed to see that though I gave specific orders that you were to be responsible for your own cases, and that any further work on Agent Eppes' would have to be _after _they were addressed, I can clearly see that my orders were disobeyed. According to all the paperwork filed for these cases, none of you three filled out any of their forms. For some reason, your fellow agents filled them out for you, instead." Donaldson had checked the files following a gut feeling that had clearly paid off. A part of him had actually thought that it had been a clever ruse by the agents, a way that had allowed them to work the one case while not being backed up on their others. However, that part of Donaldson was not speaking to them now. "I am ordering those files to be delivered back to you, and then I want each and every one of them rechecked and signed by you that there were no mistakes made in any of the paperwork. And I want that done within the next two weeks."

The team members knew that the assignment was a punishment and not a necessity. If anything had been wrong with the paperwork, they would have run into problems a long time before, and had been notified by the appropriate people. But they were stuck, their little scheme backfiring on them.

"Of course," Donaldson added, "I also expect you to catch up and start making progress on your current cases. In a little over a week, Agent Jerry Atwater will be returning as your team leader, and I want you ready to start working full-force again. That is all for now-Granger and Sinclair, you are dismissed."

Colby and David stood to leave, concerned that Megan was staying behind. When they were gone, Donaldson addressed the topic she had been speaking with Alan about earlier that morning.

"Reeves, it seems that someone is filing a document in court claiming you forged the signature of Agent Eppes, which committed him to an institute against his will."

For the first time since entering the room, Megan defended herself. "Sir, those accusations are false."

"Yes, well, my sources say they have a sworn statement attesting to it as fact."

Megan began to sweat. She hadn't counted on Fairfield telling her boss about the situation, and for the first time she realized the trouble she could be in if charges were brought against her for violating Don's civil rights. At the very least, her job could be at stake. It was suddenly important to her own personal well-being that Don get his memory back, because she was confident that he would never agree that she had done such a thing.

"That may be so, sir, but that does not make the accusation any truer."

"I also hear you assaulted a suspect the other day, and two of your fellow agents were required to pull you off of him."

Megan couldn't argue with that accusation, so she remained silent.

"If the suspect had not subsequently died in jail, I do believe you and the Bureau would be facing a lawsuit. It seems to me that you have become too emotionally embroiled with Agent Eppes' case and the events surrounding it. I noticed you have some vacation time coming, and I believe it would be in your best interest if you put some distance between yourself and his case for a while, at least until the whole matter with the forged signature is cleared."

Megan angrily gripped the arms of her chair. She understood what Donaldson really meant- stop her investigation into Thompson and in so doing, hope Thompson let the accusations of forgery drop.

"And if I choose not to take that time off?"

"Then I might insist that the Bureau look into these accusations themselves and that throughout the duration of the investigation you should be suspended without pay."

Megan released the arms of the chair and stood up. "When should I start my vacation time?"

"Apply for it today with a starting time of tomorrow." Donaldson gave Merrick a hard look. "I am sure your boss will push the request through in record time."

When Megan got back to her desk, she began filling out the required forms, her anger switching to herself when tears started to form in her eyes.

"What happened?" Colby and David stood nearby, nervously waiting for her answer.

Getting her emotions under control, she gave them a quick synopsis of her conversation with Alan that morning, and what Donaldson had decided to do about it.

"So, now we're down from the four musketeers to only two," Colby complained. "How the hell are we going to get that woman when she keeps knocking us off one by one?"

Megan shook her head. "I don't think _we're _ever going to get her, Colby. I think this fight has come to a showdown between the Eppes and Thompson. If Charlie and Alan can help Don get back his memory, it won't matter what she does to us or our investigation; it will be Don's ability to confront Thompson that will finally bring her down."


	48. How She Kidnapped Him

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

Author's note: The decisions of the court are based on the state and federal codes I read and an interview with an advocate. The way the court is run is based on an interview with a federal attorney and an advocate. If may not be perfect, but the actual results are what are important and I believe my research backs me up.

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Gordon Fairfield looked in the mirror, trying to gauge the exact number of wrinkles that cut into the corners of his eyes. He'd lost count a long time ago, not really caring, but being around Melinda always made him think of other things, other places, other people- and he was suddenly conscious of his appearance again.

Running a thin finger down his cheek, he was surprised that it was still smooth; most signs of aging on his face were limited to the white color of his eyebrows and hair, and the crinkles that refused to leave his mouth and eyes. Some people would call them laugh lines, but since the man had barely smiled in over thirty years, they would be wrong to refer to those particular facial designs in such an affectionate way. Gordon tugged at his hair, testing its strength, proud that he still had a full shock of it on his head. True, it was no longer blond, but he had seen many men his age look at him with envious eyes, their own bald heads gleaming in the sun. Moving a hand over his suit, he adjusted it in several spots, emphasizing the areas that were threadbare and irregular.

The lawyer was standing in front of a mirror set up on a wall in his living room, a large space resplendent with antique furniture and a corner fireplace, burning logs crackling deep within. The small, thin man was seventy, and liked to keep his large apartment warm, having found his skin offered him less and less warmth the older he got. No lights were on- he depended on the sunlight that streamed in through the large windows that comprised the wall at the end of the room, a view of downtown L.A. beyond the glass.

Gordon placed his large, black glasses on, pushing them down his nose to make them appear too big for his face. He had vision that was almost perfect, but in the courtroom he appeared wise, trustworthy, and harmless- like a favorite grandpa- when he wore them. It was a trick he'd learned ten years before, when an expert in jury selection had suggested it. The man had been correct, as post interviews with courtroom watchers were more positive once he began wearing them. He gave himself a final appraisal. He knew there was really no need to worry about the way he looked; they would only be attending a hearing, and he was sure the judge had already made his unofficial decision about the Eppes petition, basing it on both sets of papers he and their attorney had filed. But his once-over before leaving his apartment was a habit he'd had for years and one he could not easily break.

The old man adjusted his tie. He thought about his client, Dr. Melinda Thompson, and the woman he had hidden away from her. For thirty-five years he had pined away for Caleb Whitehall, and seeing her again the other night had brought back his love for her in full force. She had been frightened to see him, but that was because she had not recognized the old man standing next to her. But that lack of recognition had been a momentary thing, as she was easily able to see her Alfie in the eyes hidden behind his glasses.

It hadn't taken Gordon long to convince her to leave the farm, because he hadn't been foolish enough to tell the truth and say that it was her life at risk. Cleverly, he had given a quick but effective explanation of how _his _life would be in danger if Melinda knew he had come to see her, and this threat against him was enough to compel Caleb to forgo her promise to Colby and flee, taking the offer of a ride to Kansas and a farm not too dissimilar from her own. After Fairfield had driven her to meet with an associate of his, he had watched longingly as the man drove away with Caleb, completely unaware that in his efforts to save her he had banished her from the world once again.

But letting Caleb testify against Melinda had not been a choice that Fairfield wanted to make, especially after the death of Jackson. Melinda had asked for his help in getting someone to take care of Jackson in jail, and he had played along, not refusing but not actually doing anything about it, either. When she asked him to check to see if anything had happened, he had been surprised to discover something had. Fairfield did not know how Melinda had gotten to the man in a federal jail and while he was with an escort, but it was enough to make him realize that the woman would take out any obstacle that she felt was a threat to the obtainment of her son. And Fairfield knew that would include Caleb.

Fairfield was aware that the feds would have offered her protection if they felt she was threatened, but he could not risk the chance that Melinda would find a way around it. In the less than two months that he had begun handling the legal aspects of Melinda's attempt to keep her son, Fairfield had seen a side of her he had never seen before- one that was cunning, obsessive, and efficient in getting what she wanted; Jackson was physical proof of that. Fairfield had come to the conclusion that the feds were no match for her.

Fairfield himself was no lightweight. He had been trying federal criminal cases for close to thirty years and he had experience in coldly ignoring the victims of his clients and effectively defending them no matter the charge. The old man had done so because Caleb Whitehall was his weak point, and he had vigorously worked his legal magic to earn a steady stream of money so his flower child could maintain possession of her farm, going so far as to set up a trust fund so that the money would be available to her after his demise. In a sense, Fairfield had been protecting Caleb for thirty years, and when Thompson became a threat, it was an easy decision to whisk Caleb out of her way.

However, now that she was safely put away, his weak point was covered and Fairfield was again the calculating bastard he had been for the duration of his legal career, and he was all set to win Melinda her son. Of course, he knew Don Eppes was not really hers. But that was beside the point. The attorney had kept in contact with Randy throughout the years, and had been at his bedside when he finally passed, promising his best friend to take care of his wife and do whatever she required of him to make her happy. Reflecting back, Fairfield was sure that his friend already knew of his wife's plans to take Eppes, and that was why he had secured the promise from his criminal lawyer friend. It hadn't really been a necessary step, as Fairfield thought he at least owed a little debt to Melinda for the death of her baby, and, quite frankly, she was far from the worse criminal he had ever defended.

His first contact with her about the legal aspects of keeping her son had been a little over a month before. Fairfield had been out of the country, and had flown in at her request to talk. Their original conversation at the house in Alta Sierra had been about the past in general, and when he had gotten up to leave, Melinda had shocked him by opening up a bedroom door and showing him her 'son'. The childlike room and appearance of the man had convinced him that she had brought home one of her patients. He had really believed it, too, even when she called him Donny, the name on the gravesite she had thought was her son's. Melinda quickly told him her real purpose in asking him there, and Fairfield had left with the promise to look into what she had requested, thinking it would not entail too much work. Then he had entered the outskirts of L.A. and had received an even greater shock when he saw billboards advertising reward money for one Special Agent Don Eppes, the words written next to a clear picture of the man he had just left at Melinda's. Fairfield had known from that moment on that he had a real job ahead of him.

But it didn't worry him, because he was _very_ good at his job.

Fairfield took out his walking stick and put his hat on his head. It would not be long before the Eppes found out exactly how good he really was. He wished he could feel sorry for them, but, except when it came to Caleb, he was a practical man, not a sympathetic one. After Melinda was arrested, he had viewed the evaluations the doctors had done on Eppes and he had determined the man was ruined. So Fairfield figured it made sense to help Melinda retain him: it would take the burden off the shoulders of the Eppes that taking care of their damaged son would cause, it would give Melinda the son she had always wanted, and, because of whatever the hell she had done to him, it would also make Don Eppes a happy little boy.

In Fairfield's mind, Melinda's possession of Don Eppes would make everyone come out a winner.

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The last few days had been good ones for the Eppes. They had spent the daytime successfully completing Don's exercises and then the late afternoon relaxing in the pool. Don hadn't had any nightmares since Wednesday night, and they were all feeling refreshed and energetic because of it.

On top of that, Charlie had pulled out a portrait of Margaret Eppes and shown it to Don, who had excitedly informed his brother that she was the angel he had been seeing at night. Not wanting to push him too far, Charlie had avoided telling him who she really was but did ask him if it would be alright to put her picture on his dresser; Charlie had almost cried when Don said yes.

As promised, Saturday had been spent playing baseball, but they had been restricted to the backyard; Alan had been too anxious about the upcoming court date and refused to let Don go to a public park. Both of his sons had been satisfied to stay at home, and had spent the day chasing balls as neither one was currently effective in playing the game. While Don and Alan went to bed early Saturday night, Charlie had opened up some boxes containing new assistive devices that had arrived in the mail and set them up, including levers that attached to all the door knobs in the house. Sunday morning, he had shown Don how to push the levers down with his palm, and push or pull the door open, exciting him so much that Charlie had to wait a half hour before starting therapy, as Don had run from one room to another trying each and every door in the house.

Alan had tried to call each of Don's colleagues, but was puzzled when they told him they would have to get back to him. Megan was the only one who took the time to talk to him, and she simply said that she would come by Monday evening. Alan did not know, but none of Don's friends wanted to cause them any more worry before the hearing, and had agreed to keep how Thompson had sabotaged their investigation to themselves until after it was over.

Keeping that court date in mind, before bed each night, Charlie and Alan had doubled their efforts to get Don to recognize Wang as his doctor and not Thompson , even going so far as showing him the picture of Thompson that Megan had faxed them and telling him she was not his doctor, but at the same time trying not to reinforce him when he vocalized that she was Mommy.

Whether or not they had gotten through to Don would only be apparent when they finally had his hearing early Monday morning.

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"What do we do now?" Charlie asked his dad, all the while keeping a tight grip on Don's hand. He adjusted the laptop carrying case on his shoulder, the weight of Don's personal care items and extra clothes making it awkward to carry.

"We wait," was Alan's reply. He led his sons, both of whom were dressed in dark suits, into the courtroom and pointed out a couple seats in the back pews, telling them to stay there. Alan left to find his lawyer, who was supposed to meet him at the front of the courthouse.

Charlie put Don in a pew to their left. Then, he sat down next to him, at the end, so he could watch the court proceedings up the aisle. The carrying case was dropped to the floor. Don placed Buddy down on the seat next to him, and put his hands under opposite arms. Charlie had told him before coming that it would not be good for him to suck his thumb, but it was awfully hard for him to keep it out of his mouth. Every time a new person came by him, or they entered a new room, he desperately wanted to stick it in his mouth, anxious about the sudden changes. But he had promised to try not to, as a compromise with Charlie, who had allowed him to bring Buddy. When Charlie had tried to give him a list of reasons for leaving the rabbit at home, Don had cried, clinging to the rabbit and attempting to hide in the corner of the room. Charlie had settled for Don's promise to try to keep his thumb sucking hidden.

The courtroom was filling quickly. Charlie kept his eyes on the alert for Dr. Thompson, surprised she hadn't come earlier. He knew his father and Johnson would be late coming in because they were going to discuss the petition one last time.

Charlie stood when the judge entered, motioning for Don to do the same. He was relieved; apparently Thompson wasn't going to show. While he listened to the bailiff talking, his concentration was interrupted when he heard a door open behind him, muffled murmurs, and then quiet footsteps moving away, down the length of his pew. Charlie tried to see over the heads of the people filling his pew, but they were too tall, their height preventing him from seeing who had come in. When he and his row sat, his heart started pounding. Coming up his aisle, pressing herself between its occupants and the pew in front of her, was Dr. Thompson herself. Tugging on Don, Charlie rose, looking for some other place to sit; but he found no empty spaces. Still wanting to move, even if it was to leave the courtroom, Charlie turned to tell Don they had to go, but before he could get him out of the pew, Thompson was suddenly squeezing herself next to his brother, placing her purse down on top of Buddy.

Don moved his left hand out from under his arm and began twisting his ear. Normally he would be glad to see his mommy, even with the fear he harbored against her; but it bothered him today because Charlie was sitting right beside him and Don was afraid Mommy might hurt him because he took her belt. Don did not know how he could protect his brother, so he tensely twisted his ear- agitated by her proximity.

Melinda saw Don's nervous gesture and gently took his hand, pulling it away and down from his head, holding it in her own. Charlie sat back down in the pew and leaned across Don. He quietly hissed, "Get the hell away from my brother!"

Melinda smiled. She raised Don's hand to her face and kissed it, then pressed it against her breasts.

Startling his brother, Charlie reached over and yanked Don's hand from Melinda's grip, wedging it between his and Don's thighs so she would not have access to it. Slyly, she twisted in her seat and faced Charlie, lying against a confused Don and leaning toward Charlie, her large purse hidden by their bodies. She held out her left hand and quietly purred to Charlie, "You must be Don's brother, the famous Charlie. He's said so much about you."

Deciding he could beat Melinda at her own game, Charlie gripped her hand and pulled her to him, their faces inches apart, politely whispering with hard emphasis, "Funny, _he has never, ever said a solitary word about you_."

Melinda jerked her hand away from Charlie and slammed back in her seat, anger flashing in her eyes. But Charlie knew he could handle the storm brewing under her calm exterior, his own determination built sturdily enough to withstand her tempest.

A case was called, leaving seats open at the front of the courtroom. Melinda took up her bag and made her way back down the aisle, ignoring the fact that Charlie's smirk was chasing her.

Releasing Don's hand, Charlie felt he had won that particular battle. But then Don was poking him. Charlie turned to him and asked what was wrong, thinking Don might need to use the restroom.

"Buddy's gone," Don whined, tears already making preparations to run.

Charlie looked around the pew, under it, behind it: no rabbit.

"Where did you have him last, Don?" he asked, a sinking feeling already taking control of his stomach.

"Right here," Don answered. He pointed to the spot where Melinda had sat.

_Damn!Damn!Damn!_

Sitting up and stretching his neck to its limits, Charlie tried to find her, but found it difficult to see amongst all the people packed into the room. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally caught sight of her entering a pew at the front. Trying not to make any noise, Charlie dodged to the back of the courtroom and around the next set of pews, heading up front to the one where Melinda sat at the end. Charlie snuck up to her, angrily watching as she held the flap of her purse open in one hand and Buddy in the other. He snatched the rabbit from her hand, and before she could turn to stop him, had already rushed back up the rows of seating, across the back of the courtroom, and landed next to Don, plopping the rabbit into his brother's lap.

"Thanks, Charlie," Don said, kissing the rabbit on the head.

A court officer stopped next to Charlie and informed him that he would be asked to leave if he could not stay in his seat. Nodding, Charlie sank down, slipping his hand into Don's.

At that time, Alan and Harvey entered, looking for a spot to sit. But their case was called before they could find one, so they headed up to the front of the courtroom, Alan snagging his two sons along the way and then sitting next to them at the table, Don between Alan and Charlie. They all kept their eyes off the woman and her lawyer who sat at the table next to theirs. The bailiff swore everyone in. Then the judge began the proceedings.

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Judge Winston Salem- _yes, I was named after the city… by a southern father I never knew_- swore he weighed no more than 378 pounds, but most people agreed he had to tip the scale at a midpoint between four and five hundred. In either case, the obese man had several thick chins, hooded eyes, fat lips, and three hairs combed across his almost-bald head, sweat gleaming on his face while his robe hung on him more tent than clothing, never pressed because he was nearing retirement and really didn't give a damn anymore.

His body spread whenever he sat behind the bench. Its heavy weight sank onto his knees and caused him considerable pain. But the worst problem he was experiencing was a continuous case of heartburn, for which he refused to seek medical attention and tried to keep under control with a steady diet of antacids. While his assistant handed him the notes he had made about Alan Eppes' petition, he clung to a large bottle of fruit-favored and chalky circles, trying to pry the lid open with a clammy palm. The bailiff stepped over and offered his services. Salem popped three antacids in his mouth when he saw he finally had access to them.

Salem reviewed his notes while the bailiff called the court to order and the clerk handed over the case papers. Then Salem looked across at Harvey Johnson.

He really hated Johnson.

The judge closed his eyes and wiped the sweat from his brow, willing his stomach's contents to stay away from his throat. Then he informed Alan Eppes of the decision he had made regarding the petition.

"This hearing is in regards to the petition for permanent conservatorship of Agent Don Eppes by his father, Alan Eppes." Salem closed his eyes again, breathing heavily. His assistant brought him a cup of water, but one sip and he realized it had only made matters worse. He popped two more antacids into his mouth and opened his eyes to continue.

"Now, I sat at the first hearing and decided that Agent Eppes needed to be assigned an emergency conservator based upon medical opinions written by a"- he checked his notes, -"Wang, Dr. Wang. Because his opinion is also used for this petition, I was ready to rule in favor of assigning permanent conservatorship papers to Mr. Eppes. Until I received court documents contesting the petition, submitted by a,"- again, he had to look at his notes, -"Dr. Thompson, psychiatrist." He briefly looked at Thompson and Fairfield, who nodded.

Salem flipped a page, briefly wondering why Fairfield, a man prominent in federal criminal cases, was 'slumming it' in his probate court. The judge scanned the page before him and continued talking when he found the part he wanted. "These documents show there is reason to believe an Agent Megan Reeves, in conjunction with Alan Eppes, conspired to have Agent Don Eppes institutionalized against his will, going so far as to have Agent Reeves sign his name to his admittance papers. This was witnessed by Marta Kincaid, night nurse at the institute, according to her sworn statement. Thompson also protests that she should have been contacted as a person of interest for this hearing because her advice had previously been sought as concerns Agent Eppes' well-being, and that Alan Eppes did not contact her because he knew she would contest the petition."

Though he had been forewarned by Johnson as to what Thompson alleged in her papers, it did not make it easier for Alan to hear the judge formally say the accusations aloud and in public. He felt as if everyone in the room had their eyes on him, judging.

Harvey Johnson stood up. "Your honor, we did not contact Dr. Thompson as she had federal charges filed against her for kidnapping and containing Agent Eppes against his will."

Salem sighed and dropped his chins down several inches. He looked to Fairfield, who stood and explained, "All charges against my client were dismissed before this petition was filed."

As Johnson started to protest, Salem waved a hand at him to sit down.

"This is a hearing, not a trial. If you want to battle it out in front of a jury, take it to civil court. In the meantime, based on the evidence before me, I can not issue permanent papers of conservatorship to Alan Eppes, I am revoking the temporary ones that I previously issued, and would personally urge Agent Don Eppes to file charges against his father and co-worker for violating his civil rights- maybe even the institute that admitted him."

Harvey Johnson stood up again, ignoring the eyes that Salem rolled at him. "Your honor, as you stated, based on Dr. Wang's assessment, it is clear that Agent Eppes needs a conservator. Can we amend our papers and request that his brother, Professor Charles Eppes, be named as conservator instead?"

Salem gave a groan and laid his head down on the bench before him. He swallowed several times, turned his head to the side, and tossed two more antacids into his mouth. When he finished chewing them, he raised his head and fairly shouted at Johnson.

"No, you can not! Your petition is based solely on the recommendations of Dr. Wang, whose institute Agent Eppes was admitted into without his permission, and who may have evaluated him without his consent. This court made a mistake in issuing the first papers, and I am completely reversing my first decision, as it was based on ill-gotten information. If you have the _gall _to file a new petition on behalf of Agent Eppes' brother, I guarantee you that I will be the one conducting the hearing and will expect an evaluation from a physician other than Wang. One, preferably, of Agent Eppes' own choosing."

Gordon Fairfield stood, politely covering his mouth while he coughed for attention. _Here we go_, thought Salem. He knew there had to be some purpose in Fairfield showing up that day. "I think it would be in the court's best interest if we clarified the exact nature of the relationship between my client and Agent Eppes- specifically in regards to her being his physician."

"Your honor," Johnson quickly stated. He knew he was angering the judge with the time he was taking, but, as he had informed Alan, he could not allow the court to believe Don's kidnapper was his physician and risk Salem basing the next petition on what she said. "Dr. Thompson may be an acquaintance of Agent Eppes, but there is no reason to believe she is his physician."

Gordon Fairfield spoke. "Your honor, I suggest we ask Agent Eppes who his physician is, so that we can avoid taking up any more of the court's valuable and limited time."

Alan and Charlie looked at Don, who seemed preoccupied playing with Buddy. But he wasn't playing with him. Don had been listening to what the judge said, not quite understanding the proceedings. Becoming nervous, he had started tugging Buddy's ear and realized that something about the rabbit did not feel right. Don had started turning the rabbit around into different positions; he ran his fingers over his friend and squeezed his limbs, inspecting them, trying to figure out what was wrong. One part of his thorough inspection was to lift the rabbit's ears and look at them. Confused, he peered at them; it was then that he was able to make out something written in tiny, light letters, deep in the well of the left ear.

Don frowned.

While Fairfield talked to the judge, Don turned the toy over on its head. It was then that he became positive he was not holding Buddy; he remembered the rabbit had been torn when he got pictures at the institute, and Debra had fixed him up. But those stitches were ominously missing from Buddy's bottom.

Don turned the stuffed toy back over and stared at its face, knowing he was holding an imposter. He left it on the table in front of him and dropped his arms at his sides, fear billowing in his stomach for his friend.

"Johnson?" Salem was barking at the attorney.

Charlie and Alan spoke to Don, urging him to pay attention to the big man in front of him. But Don didn't want to. _Mommy kidnapped Buddy._

"Don, please," Charlie pleaded from his right.

Salem was getting impatient. As he shifted in his seat, his eyes suddenly fell upon the stuffed toy sitting in front of Don. Oh, lord, Salem thought, that's what's left of a federal agent? He had, of course, read about the brain injury, but seeing the results in person made them more horrendous. He decided to revert to a kinder tone, "Agent Eppes, you were already sworn in, so I'll let you answer from your seat. Is Dr. Thompson your psychiatrist?"

"Your honor, he only answers to Don or Donny," Johnson stood and explained.

"All right, Donny," Salem said as pleasantly as he could, "Is this woman," he pointed to Dr. Thompson, "your doctor?"

Alan took Don's hand under the table, rubbing it gently for reassurance. Don leaned forward and looked at the other table, seeing his mommy with her head bent toward him and a smile on her face. He remembered what she had made him promise to say and the threats she had made against Charlie; Don still wanted to protect his brother. And he also remembered what Charlie wanted him to say, and he did not want to disappoint him.

Don looked over to his mommy again. She had stolen Buddy. She didn't have to do it. He already knew what he was going to say, and taking his friend wasn't going to change that. But how was he going to get him back? He thought about the message she had left him in Buddy Imposter's ear. Don decided Mommy would give Buddy back if he made her happy and did what she requested.

"Donny, can you tell me, is Dr. Thompson your doctor?" Salem requested again. He wiped some more sweat from his brow and checked the time. He knew they needed to end, but he did not want to waste his time with another hearing if it turned out Thompson _was_ Agent Eppes' doctor and Johnson filed a petition without so much as a statement from her included in the evaluation.

Don's tongue darted out, trying to moisten his lips. "Yeh, uh," he felt Charlie's hand slip through his arm. "Nuh."

Salem asked, "Was that a _yes _or a _no_?"

His mouth dry, Don croaked, "No."

His father and brother squeezed his hand and arm in support as they shared a smile and thought- _Thompson is finally losing her grip on Don_.

"Are you sure?" Salem probed, "She never took care of you while you were at her home?"

Trying to get some saliva going, Don moved his tongue loosely in his mouth. "Fed me."

Salem smiled for the first time that day. "She fed you, huh? Agent Eppes, did Dr. Thompson treat you like a friend or a doctor?"

"Not a doctor." Don stated.

"Okay, now that we're clear about that, tell me- do you have _any_ personal doctor?"

To Charlie and Alan's disappointment, Don replied _no_. They had hoped he would say Wang like they had practiced.

Fairfield stood, "So, this court does not acknowledge a patient/client relationship between my client, Dr. Thompson, and Agent Don Eppes?"

Salem barked at Fairfield. "It can not acknowledge something that Agent Eppes states _is not there_. Now, sit down."

Addressing Alan's attorney, Salem snapped, "I hope I don't need to tell you your job, Johnson, but I will anyway- find a court-approved physician and have him evaluate Agent Eppes _before_ you file another petition." The judge leaned back in his seat and directed his assistant to give him another set of notes while the bailiff called the next case.


	49. How We Struggled

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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Charlie grabbed Don's hand and pulled him into a hug. Alan patted him on the back and told him he had done a good job. But Don didn't pay attention to either of them- he was watching Melinda stride down the middle aisle of the courtroom, her large purse thrown over her arm, Gordon Fairfield behind her.

"Come on, Don, we have to go." Charlie took his hand and began leading him from the table.

"Mommy, Charlie"- Don began, but then some people appeared, waiting to take their seats.

"You can see her later. Right now, we have to leave."

Don remained quiet as they started up the aisle. "Don, you forgot Buddy." Alan picked up the imposter and handed it to him. Frowning, Don took him in his arm and continued to follow Charlie. He wasn't sure what to do yet. Maybe Mommy would be outside and he could ask her to give him back Buddy.

Alan waited for his lawyer, who collected his papers and was about to leave when he was called to the bench by Judge Salem. "Wait at the top of the courtroom, Alan. I'll be right with you." Then Johnson approached the judge.

"Off the record, Louise," Salem told his court reporter. She placed her hands together and began to massage each finger. "Johnson, you know I had to make the decision I did based on the evidence."

Alan's attorney gave the judge a cheeky grin. "Why, Winston, are you apologizing to moi?" He patted himself on the chest. "You've never been so affectionate."

Salem growled, "Cut the crap, Johnson. You know I hate your guts. You're always playing fast and slick with the law, and today your antics backfired in your face."

"Wait a minute!" Johnson was suddenly serious. "This petition was legitimate. You saw that man- he's a six foot child. Someone obviously needs to be looking out for his best interests."

"For all the money you're charging his family, it should be you. There was plenty of time between when Fairfield filed his papers and today- you should have had another evaluation done." Salem wiped the sweat from his brow. "And don't think I didn't notice Eppes has yet to receive that brain operation Wang said he needed in your original petition- I decided to be kind and forget that little omission of yours."

"You could have been kinder and just given the papers to his brother," Johnson pointed out, "you didn't have to throw out Wang's reports."

"Hell, you already knew I'm a stickler for these things, and I'm too old to change my ways, so you should have been prepared. And that's all beside the point now. What is apparent to me is that Eppes _is _a child and _somebody_ does need to take care of him- whether it's that girlfriend of his or his brother, or some long lost aunt."

"Thompson is not Eppes' girlfriend, she's"- Johnson began to argue, but was deftly cut off.

"You get my point," Salem snapped. Then he nodded towards the clerk to hand over the papers for the next case. "You want kinder? Fine- get that new evaluation and call me personally when you file the new papers." Salem clicked two fat fingers, summoning his assistant, who handed Johnson a card. "If you get it done by Thursday, I'll personally see to it that the court investigator interviews Eppes and checks his brother's home on Friday. I'm assuming he would live with the brother?"

"Yes," Johnson said.

"Fine, do your job right this time and I'll see if we can't fit you in next Monday." Salem started to flip threw the new case, but stopped when he realized Johnson was still there.

"Do you need written instructions?" he asked sarcastically.

Johnson was puzzled. "Giving us a new hearing at such an early date is more than kinder- it's unheard of. Considering you do hate my guts, I'm curious as to why you"-

Salem interrupted the attorney once again. "My brother, God rest his soul, was a police officer. I have a soft spot for those in law enforcement- but nothing but loathing for the likes of you. Now get the hell out of my face."

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Charlie and Don stood together in the wide hall outside the courtroom, waiting for their father and his lawyer to appear. Both Eppes were looking for Melinda Thompson- Charlie so they could avoid her, Don so he could ask her for his friend. It was the elder brother who saw her first, and despite the younger one's grip on his hand, he tore free and sped toward her, the fake rabbit held out in front of him as he closed the distance between them.

"Baby," Melinda drew Don into her arms and put her lips to his ear, whispering. He stood limply in her embrace, listening carefully to what she said, observing the fact that her purse and her lawyer were nowhere in sight.

Only a few moments behind his brother, Charlie tried to separate Thompson from Don, but found she had a death grip around him. He tried to hear what she was telling him, but her mouth was too close to his ear and it was impossible to make out a single word she was saying. Charlie wanted to rip the woman in two but was conscious of the officers that guarded the hall- he did not want to risk losing conservatorship of his brother because Thompson claimed he was violent; he put his hands on his hips and leaned forward, taking three deep breaths. A complete feeling of control swept through him, then Charlie evaluated the situation with a clear mind, decided what he needed to do and then made his move: he positioned himself next to Don, facing in the general direction of Thompson, then he slid his hand between their waists, opened the narrow space by sliding sideways, and smoothly slipped between them, breaking Thompson's hold on Don in the process.

Immediately upon being separated from Don, Melinda tried to move around Charlie, but he was too quick; Charlie encircled her with unyielding arms, holding her in place- but he was careful to smile, as if they were old friends hugging. Charlie placed his own lips near her ear and whispered, "If you ever touch my brother again- I swear I'll shred you into exactly 1, 347 pieces."

Alan came out of the courtroom talking with Johnson, but when he saw Thompson's proximity to his sons, he left the attorney and went directly to Don, steering him away from her. Seeing his father out of the corner of his eye, Charlie released Thompson and began to draw away, only to find the woman had wrapped her arms around him, keeping him close.

"What's really bothering you, Charles," she crooned in his ear, "that you lost Don in court today, or that he wants me _more _than he has _ever_ wanted you-

and _more _than he ever will."

She gave a sharp push and then she was gone, leaving Charlie quaking where he stood.

How could she rend a man apart like that, with just a few words? It was as if she had seen into his soul and found his greatest fears and doubts. And now that she brought the subject up, it began to nip at him- that maybe Don did want to be with her more than him and his father, and what right did they have to keep the two apart, especially if that was what would make Don happy? Though Charlie told himself that he did not _really_ believe this to be true, it was impossible for him to ignore the nagging uncertainty that her words brought to the foreground, all based on his previous relationship with Don when they were much younger and he did, as his father had described, have to chase after his older brother in order to have any semblance of a relationship. When Don regained his memory, would he be resentful of how Charlie had to take care of him? Would he start running away from him again- and would Charlie have the strength to chase him, or more importantly, would he be able to catch him?

_More than he ever will_.

Charlie hated the woman, for throwing it in his face that his brother still wanted and needed her, that he indeed loved her- even with all the horrible things she had done to him and the fear she had instilled in him through physical force. She made Charlie feel like he had been required to beg for Don's love, and that he had only been given it because _she_ was no longer available and that if the situation ever changed, Charlie would be thrown to the wayside and Thompson eagerly put in his place.

In one sentence, the woman had dug her claws into Charlie and scratched along his soul, leaving him pained and wounded, and deathly afraid- frightened that she _would _win, and Don would choose her over his family, two people who had real love to give him, and not the false pretences of it that Thompson offered him- but in his confused mind, love that Don seemed so incapable of refusing.

"Charlie, I think we better go." Alan had a firm hand on Don's arm.

Staring toward the door Thompson had exited through, Charlie roughly shook aside the qualms he had been feeling about his relationship with Don. His mind began to sharply digest Thompson's words, and he became troubled by what she had said to him for another reason. Charlie looked at his father and said, "Something's wrong, Dad. She said we lost Don in there. I know we didn't get the conservatorship papers, but we still have possession of him and, despite her best efforts, the court didn't recognize her as his physician. Yet she didn't walk out of here like she was defeated- she looked triumphant to me. Now, why would she look like that?"

Alan didn't know what to say, so he remained quiet while he began to guide Don towards the exit door, the older man's left eye starting to twitch.

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Later that evening, Don and Charlie played with the car racing video game that had been purchased the previous week, while Alan answered the front door when he heard the bell and then stepped onto the porch when he saw that it was Megan.

"Long time, no see, stranger," Alan gave Megan a hug. They sat down on the front steps, looking out across the neighborhood towards the setting sun.

"So, how did it go in court?" Megan played with the tips of her hair, unable to look at Alan. He explained everything that had happened during the hearing, and what his lawyer had talked to him about afterwards.

"Johnson says there is no way Charlie will be denied the papers next week. He had nothing to do with Don being institutionalized, and he has an impeccable history- no arrests and a prestigious job at a university. So, in the end, everything will be alright." But Alan's body posture was in opposition to the positive words he spoke. He looked strained to Megan; he was sitting with his shoulders slumped, but the rest of him was coiled tight, like a rubber band on the verge of snapping. And his facial ticks came and went, depending on how he repositioned himself on the steps.

Megan took his hand and loosely held it. "I am so sorry, Alan. I only helped him sign the last two letters of his name- I had no idea it would be blown out of proportion into an accusation of involuntary institutionalization. Don really did sign himself in- if he hadn't been trying to give me a hard time, he'd have been finished long before I interceded. And Thompson knows that. I mean, if she didn't expect him to commit himself, why would she give him a list of instructions for the doctor?"

Alan gently squeezed her hand and then released it. He laid his arms across his knees and spoke to his feet. "It's not your fault, Megan. And really, I don't know who to blame. Thompson is doing all these things to get to Don, but I think I'm angrier at the system for _allowing _her to do it." He adjusted his body so that he was leaning on his elbows against the porch steps. "After court, Harvey kept assuring me that Charlie would be assigned the papers next week- that we only have to pass an inspection with the court investigator this Friday and get Don a new evaluation. He keeps reminding me that only a spouse or adult child would be considered conservator before Charlie and that since Don has neither, they'll have to place him with his brother."

"But in the meantime?" Megan twirled another lock of hair.

"In the meantime, if that woman asks Don to go somewhere with her, it isn't kidnapping. He is now considered mentally functional and is fully capable of making his own decisions. Yet, one week from today the judge will probably say that he isn't. It seems crazy that by just a wave of a mallet, a person can be judged incapacitated one moment and then fully capable the next. I wish it were that easy to actually cure Don of all his problems."

"I wish it were, too."

Megan dropped her hands to her lap. "Alan, about the legal system- I came by to give you news about the case against Thompson." She told him everything they had found out since she had talked to him last, including Director Donaldson's visit the previous Friday.

Alan sat up, listening with his heart pounding loudly in his ears. "They made you go on leave?"

"No, vacation. Of course, there is nothing I want to do other than work, so it's not much of one."

"I can't believe they gave up on Don again."

"Alan, we don't have much, other than some circumstantial evidence. And you have to understand, in his current condition, we won't put Don on the stand, but Fairfield will, and what jury would find Thompson guilty if Don was sitting up there testifying that he loved the woman and everything we were saying was lies- all lies? Then she would be out of our reach forever. Our best bet in getting Thompson is to keep Don away from her, and when he remembers everything about himself, we'll be able to rely on him to support our evidence by confronting her in court. The statute of limitations won't run out before that happens- we just have to be patient."

"I feel like I've been patient for much too long, Megan. I don't know how much longer I can just sit by and watch my son being manipulated and controlled by that woman."

Megan frowned. "I thought you said that you were making progress with Don's memory- that you thought he was finally breaking free from her?"

Alan stood up and crossed to a baluster, leaning against it. "Actually, progress comes down to one brief description of an old girlfriend and four nights without nightmares about Thompson. The more I think about it, the more I realize she has been maintaining control of Don even though she hasn't been present in his dreams and despite the fact that he has been learning to trust us. I saw this control when we were in court today, when she was able to keep Don from me by contesting my petition. And right before we were about to leave, she talked to Charlie and left him with the impression that Don said or did something in court that Thompson wanted him to, but we don't know what it was, or why it would give her an advantage."

"Alan, if you're still that concerned about Thompson, I can watch your house for you. That's one thing my boss can't tell me what to do and that's how to spend my vacation."

"No, that's not necessary. I think whatever she has planned, it has to do with our hearing next week. I just wish I knew what it was. She got real close to Don today and said something to him, I think in regards that subject, only Charlie hasn't been able to get Don to tell him what it was. I have a distinct feeling we're heading for another fight."

Megan went to Alan and gave him a hug. "Don't worry, Alan. You and Charlie will win in the end. Things will get better, and so will Don."

"We keep telling ourselves that, Megan, but events have been falling short of those expectations."

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Alan watched as Don and Charlie headed towards the stairs. He stood with his hands on his hips, thinking. When Don had his first foot on the bottom step, Alan walked toward them, asking Charlie, "Hey, why don't you let me get Don ready for bed? Give you a little break."

Both of his sons looked at him. Charlie shrugged, "I'm fine, Dad, and I know it's been a long day for you, so go ahead and relax. I'll take care of him."

"Ah, come on, Charlie, it wasn't that long of a day. Besides, I thought you wanted to work on that algorithm of yours." Alan put a hand on the banister and made to move around his youngest son. Charlie put out a hand to stop his dad while he gently prodded Don up the stairs.

"It's really okay, Dad. I don't want you to feel bad because you think I'm tired, because I'm not." Charlie turned and quickly followed Don. Alan went into the living room, pulled out a puzzle, and donned his eyeglasses, but he found it impossible to concentrate. His mind kept wandering to the occurrences at the courthouse that day and his eldest son.

After getting Don cleaned and dressed for bed, Charlie walked him to the bedroom. Alan was waiting, the top sheet spread out on the bed. "I think we better wrap him up tonight," he told Charlie, "I have a feeling." He left it up to Charlie to understand what he meant, and he was not disappointed. Charlie nodded, helping Alan adjust it over Don and lie down to seal him in. In moments, Don was asleep and Alan was curled around him, holding to him tighter than he had ever done before.

Two hours later, Charlie scrambled out of bed and hit the lights. Don was screaming again, only this time his movements were restricted by the sheet.

Alan was in the process of pulling Don close to him when Charlie took his usual position and sat on the bed; he began reaching to take Don out of his father's arms so he could massage his back and legs.

Shoving aside Charlie's hands, Alan lashed out at him, "Leave him alone, dammit. He's my son- not yours."

Startled, Charlie attempted to say something in response, but nothing came out of his mouth. He slowly climbed off the bed and stood by its side, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly opened, wanting to comprehend this new situation but unable to fully grasp it. As he watched his father take over, Charlie was torn between the need to help his brother and wanting to obey his father. In the end, he just stood frozen to his spot, unwilling to move until he was certain Don was thoroughly calmed.

Alan twisted Don towards his chest and held onto him, whispering soothingly in his ear and desperately rubbing his body, needing to calm him down himself. It took twice as long as when Charlie was in charge, but he finally managed to get Don to still.

"Charlie," Don quietly cried into Alan's chest.

"It's alright, Donny. Your daddy's here- I'll take care of you."

Letting his eyes roam as far as he could, Don did not see Charlie standing near the bed behind him. Unsettled that his brother was not there, but needing to cling to someone he loved, Don pressed his head against Alan and slowly fell asleep. When Charlie heard the soft snores, he shut off the light and left the room, sitting on the top stairs anxious and hurt, not knowing what he had done wrong in trying to help his brother.

Charlie heard the bedroom door squeak open, and then his father was sitting by his side, his head in his hands. "I'm sorry, so sorry. You did not deserve that."

"I just don't understand. We thought there might be problems after Don saw Thompson, and I was just doing what has been working since the first time he had a nightmare." Charlie felt a pang of rejection in his heart. He wrapped himself in a hug and looked out over the entryway below him.

"I know, Charlie. You've done a great job in helping Donny calm down." Alan looked away, too, facing the wall. He could not bear to see the pain he had caused his son. "You've been great at doing everything for Don- feeding him, dressing him, teaching him. It probably would have been better if we had asked that you be conservator to begin with."

Charlie released his arms from around his body and turned toward Alan, grabbed him by the shoulders and made his father face him. "Is that what this is about? You think I'm doing a better job at taking care of Don, and that you're not needed anymore?"

"No, Charlie, it's not that. I know I'm not useless, but…" Alan refused to look into Charlie's eyes.

"But what? We've been through this, Dad. I need you- if you weren't here to help me, I couldn't do what I've been doing."

"It's not that, Charlie." Alan bit his lip, but it didn't work. He began to cry. Charlie took him into a hug and massaged his back.

"Dad, what is it? What's wrong?"

Breathing heavily through his tears, Alan cried in agony, "Oh, lord, I lost my son today." He had to suck in some air before continuing. "Charlie, I lost your brother. In a public court, I listened as a judge said I was not capable of taking good care of my son, that I couldn't be trusted with him, and then he took him away. When Don woke up with that nightmare and I saw you coming to help him, I don't know- something in me snapped. All I saw was someone else coming to take my son from me. First it was Thompson, then the court, and tonight, it's what I thought when I saw you."

Alan let the tears come, relishing the relief. "I was wrong when I said you've been a good brother to Don, because you haven't been. Actually, what you've been is a great father. I guess it was my turn to feel jealous, Charlie, because I couldn't let you have Don tonight, I just couldn't let _anyone _have him- I felt like if I did that, then he really would be lost to me and I would no longer be his father."

"Dad, I understand that you're afraid of losing Don, because I am, too. But no matter what the court said today, you didn't lose Don, and I am not taking your place-you are and always will be his father, my father, too.You can't let the things Thompson does affect you." Charlie thought about how she had made him feel earlier in the day, the doubts she planted in his mind about his relationship with Don. "She's good at what she does. And right now, all she's doing is trying to tear our family apart. The only reason you were denied custody of Don was because of her lies." Charlie pulled back and forced his father to meet his eyes. "_Lies_- nothing but _lies._ If we start believing the ones she's telling us, we'll never get Don to stop believing the ones she told him."

Alan nodded weakly. "I know, Charlie, but it is becoming more and more difficult not to believe the picture that she's painting of me. When I was sitting in court today, I thought I had gone through the looking glass and Thompson was the evil queen, controlling the court and meting out justice. I was almost surprised when the judge didn't tell the bailiff "Off with his head" after he told an entire court that I was such a horrible father he had to deny me custody of my own son."

"But that decision was based on her lies, not because you haven't been a great dad. If the government really thought you did such a bad job in raising Don, why did they hire him to work at the F.B.I.?" Alan gave Charlie a small smile, one that was returned in kind. "Look, if you want, we could forget applying for papers in my name. We could go to civil court instead and appeal the decision the judge made about your petition."

"No, Charlie. That could take months. I don't think we could stop Don if Thompson showed up one day and told him they had to leave. Without conservator papers, we would have to let them go." Alan rested his head on Charlie's shoulder, thinking it was no wonder Don was able to find comfort there; his youngest son seemed to emit an aura of love and security. "We also have to remember there are other people like Jackson out there. I still have a difficult time even bringing up his name, and it would kill me if we left a legal door wide open so someone else could take advantage of your brother like that."

"Okay, Dad, I guess an appeal isn't the best route to take. But if we're going to go through with filing a petition with my name on it, we have to agree it is _our_ petition, whether my name's the only one on it or not. We can't let a little piece of paper come between us."

Charlie's own anxiety disappeared while he held Alan. He felt strength and endurance when he touched his father, and it was something he knew they would both need as they continued to wage their war against Thompson.

"No, Charlie, we can't. I promise I won't be upset when you get the papers."

"Don't promise me that, Dad. Promise me that if you do start feeling insecure again, you'll talk to me about it. This feeling you had that you lost Don was intense. If he hadn't had that nightmare and you had let it build up in you, there is no telling how it might have come out. We can't risk hurting Don or ourselves if we want to beat Thompson. So, if she attacks us again, you have to promise to let me know if you've been wounded. It's the only way I can help you make repairs and heal."

"I promise, Charlie."

They rose together, and headed back to Don's bedroom.

As they climbed into bed, Charlie stepped on something soft and lumpy. Reaching down, he pulled a rabbit up from the floor. "Don tossed Buddy out of bed. Can you lift the sheet so I can push him into his arms?'

Alan complied, softly telling Don what they were doing so he wouldn't completely wake from the movement. Then all three men slipped into sleep.

The next morning, Charlie rose from bed, glad that his brother had only been afflicted with one nightmare throughout the night. Feeling a soft and lumpy mass beneath his feet again, he bent over and picked up the rabbit from the floor, puzzled that Don had somehow managed to toss it out of bed even though his body had been wrapped in a sheet.


	50. What You Could Remember

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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"Gordon, my darling."

"Melinda, my client- what can I do for you?"

"Just making certain we are set for tomorrow."

"I am, as always, prepared at my end."

"Then you obtained duplicates?"

"Yes, Melinda, I have both I.D.s for your son."

"Actual duplicates?"

"Yes- perfectly legal I.D.s. You don't want the Eppes claiming you used fake ones."

"No, I want everything well within the law. That is why I hired you."

"Yes, and I am meeting those requirements."

Pause.

"What about our other affair, Gordon?"

"I'll file our own papers late Friday afternoon- it'll be too late for Johnson to obtain a copy of them before the hearing Monday. When we get to court, he won't know what hit him."

"But what if he figures out what we did before then? He'll be prepared to"-

"No, Melinda, he won't. Johnson's a good attorney, but he's never met the likes of me."

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The Tuesday after court, Charlie and Alan strapped Don into their car and drove to the institute, the anguishes caused by the hearing laid aside and all their enegies once again on the physical and mental care of their ill family member. Don was to have his therapy sessions with Olivia and Jim, and then he was going to receive another MRI to check the progress he was making from taking the diuretics.

When Alan pulled into the parking lot, he sat in the car, nervously thinking about what had occurred the last time he had been there.

"We were fine last Thursday, Dad," Charlie told him and climbed out of the car, "But I would be lying if I said being here doesn't make me a little anxious, too." He undid Don's seatbelt and helped him out of the car, snatching up the toy rabbit from the floor of the backseat. "Here you go, Don."

Don took the imposter from Charlie. He kept forgetting to hold him because he knew it wasn't really his friend and he resented having to keep him by his side. But he also knew that it was not good for him to keep leaving him behind, because Charlie and Daddy might begin to wonder why he was doing that, and recognize that it wasn't really Buddy- maybe even take a close look at him and see the message Mommy wrote in his left ear. If they read that message, then he would not be able to exchange the imposter for his friend. So, Don tried to carry it like he always did Buddy, putting his feelings of anger at the toy aside and trying to concentrate on what Mommy told him he needed to do, because he had to get Buddy back- he just had to.

The Eppes spent an hour each with Olivia and Jim, and received the good news that Don seemed to be progressing quite well, though it had only been a week. Olivia warned them to start working on Don's fluency, so that his ability to say full sentences at an even rate could develop along with his ability to swallow and grip. Charlie let Jim know that they had been floating in the pool at home, and that Don had gotten down to just his life vest and a few flotation disks, which impressed the therapist. They both hoped Don would be able to enter the institute's pool on Thursday and do his exercises.

When they went to have Don's MRI, Charlie told Alan that it would probably be better if the elder Eppes was in the room during the procedure. Alan smiled with gratitude at Charlie for letting him perform the role of comforter, and stood beside Don for the hour it took to finish. Unbeknownst to Charlie, because of his overzealous behavior during the previous MRI, the nurses had already decided to ban him from the room, and they smiled with _relief _when it was Alan who stood beside his son and not Charlie, glad for having avoided the confrontation that they thought would be necessary to keep the two brothers apart.

After the exam, Charlie again stepped aside and let his father enter the dressing room with Don. He had naturally come to the realization that his father's request to get Don ready for bed the previous night had not been to give his youngest son a break; it had been because his father needed to know that he still possessed the position he had always been assigned- that of parent. When they finished, Don popped out of the dressing room and ran to Charlie, pulling his jeans out in front of him with his thumb.

"Look, look, look."

Charlie did as he was told, and smiled when he saw that Don was no longer wearing his incontinency briefs.

"He's back to wearing his regular drawers," Alan said as he stepped between his sons. "Since the only problem he occasionally has is with his bladder, they said we can switch to shields."

"No more specials," Don said gleefully. He was excited because he remembered Mommy said he wasn't like Charlie and his daddy, that they didn't dress like a baby and he did. Now, he was becoming more and more like them.

One of the nurses informed them that Dr. Wang would call with the exam results the next day, and then they headed home.

While Don and his father napped, Charlie looked through the objects that he had sorted from the storage boxes he and Larry had brought in the week before. Two unopened boxes sat in the corner, but he had decided they had enough items as it was and left them untouched. Charlie thought about how Don had remembered Val by talking about an incident that was apparently still important to both of them; he was glad for the memory's appearance, but he wanted Don to focus on the people that had a more immediate relationship with him now. He remembered a game he had read about online and decided that he would give it a try.

Charlie went out to the garage and began going through the photos he had collected in order to make Don's friends-only keychain. Turning on his scanner and computer, he spent the rest of naptime making two copies each of 5'by 7' portrait pictures of himself, his dad, Larry, Aunt Irene and a selection of friends. Then he rummaged through boxes in the corner of the garage until he found twenty wooden frames- some used, some not- in which he could place the pictures, and carried them out to the solarium. Charlie cleared the card table of its contents, and laid the pictures out in rows four across and five deep, with the pictures lying flat and face up. He planned to play a game of memory with Don, using the pictures of family members and friends instead of the typical pictures of objects.

After setting up, Charlie heard the doorbell ring and was happy to see Larry standing in front of him.

"I thought you had classes today," he welcomed his friend into the house.

"My classes are currently occupied with a riddle I assigned each of them." Larry followed Charlie into the solarium and ran a finger along the frames lying on the table when he saw them there.

"And that would be?" Charlie asked. He sat on the couch, relaxing against its side.

"Oh, they must use a scientific theory to prove the existence of life outside our galaxy," Larry replied, then he commented on the photos."These comprise another therapy activity for Don?"

"Yes, it's almost like go-fish or memory; we'll lay the pictures facedown and let him turn them back over one at a time, then see if he remembers where its pair is and who the person actually is. We can ask him questions about each individual, and see if it helps him to dredge up any more memories. I included pictures of us because Don already knows our names, so he can at least be successful when I ask him who we are." Dipping back into Larry's class assignment, he asked, "Isn't that riddle another one of those impossible tasks you like to assign just to keep your students busy?" Charlie crossed his arms accusingly.

"Why Charles, many tasks were at one time considered impossible," Larry put a hand to his chin, "though, I must admit, if one of them actually came up with a workable theory, I might have to rethink my entire curricular philosophy."

Before Charlie could reply, they heard footsteps coming down the stairs and Don appeared in the doorway, the goofy smile of the recently wakened on his face.

"Hello, friend," Larry put out a hand, but quickly found himself in the midst of a warm hug as greeting instead.

"Hello, friend," Don replied. Then he showed off his new attire- or rather, the fact that he now lacked the old.

"Hmmm. It seems you are progressing quite superbly, Don. I do believe your efforts will be further rewarded- and soon."

Charlie set about showing Don the pictures on the table, wanting to jump right into playing the game. Don frowned when he saw the individual pictures of David, Megan, and Colby. "I don't like them," he said.

Charlie wasn't surprised at Don's response; it was the reason he had been hesitant to broach the subject before, but he had finally come to the conclusion that Don needed to understand that these three people _were _his friends. He had put their pictures on Don's keychain, but he had yet to explain who they were to Don because he had not wanted to cause him the emotional turmoil that talking about them could cause. However, now that they were trying to get Don to remember things about himself, Charlie could not see how they would be able to bring up recent memories without involving his team members in the process, because so much of Don's life had involved the F.B.I. before he was kidnapped. Charlie had finally concluded that the anxiety it might cause Don was worth the risk, and he would just have to be prepared to carry him through it.

"Why don't you like them, Don?" Charlie enquired, standing next to him in front of the table.

"They took me…from Mommy." Don shook his head. "They're not nice."

"Don, don't you like living here with me and Dad?" Charlie put an arm around him, wanting to know the instant he started shivering.

"Yes."

"Then it was good that they took you from her- otherwise, you wouldn't be here with us." Charlie waited for Don to digest that information. "They didn't like the way she hit you, Don. They wanted to keep her from doing it again. And then, they brought you to Dr. Wang, so that he could help you get to us."

Don studied the pictures on the table. His eyes roamed from one to another, but then he stopped and concentrated on the portrait of Megan. She looked pretty to him, like the small, fragmented picture he had left in his mind of Val. He remembered how nice she had talked to him at his old house, and how she had let Mommy walk with him out to the ambulance. He thought about how she swore when she got upset at him at the institute and how she had apologized to him for doing it- which was something Mommy never did when she got mad. Don knew he had been scared when he first met Dr. Wang, and that the woman had wanted to go with him, but Mommy had told him to make sure she didn't. At first, he thought it was because Mommy was afraid the woman might hurt him. Now, he wondered if it was because she knew the woman would want to keep Mommy from hitting him, just like Charlie said.

Confused, Don slumped onto the couch, drew his knees to his chest, stuck his thumb in his mouth and hid his face in the corner, his left arm over his head. Everything and everybody good around him seemed at such odds with his mommy, yet he had been happy with her for a while when it was just them two together and even though he had to be careful about everything he said and did, otherwise he knew she would slap or belt him. Don could not help the fact that he still loved his mommy, as he continued to have a misguided view of her, one that was further muddled by the good memories of his real mother that ebbed back and forth on the edges of his mind, a continuous flowing together of the horrible fear he felt for Melinda and the love he had for his real mother.

Charlie sat on the couch and turned toward Don; he pulled his legs underneath him and sat on his knees, laying his body against his brother's, feeling the tremors that rolled through him. Larry instinctively faded from the room through the doorway into the living room to wait. "I didn't mean to upset you, Don, but we really need to talk about these people and how they have tried to help you. I told you before that you had friends, and these people are three of them. Friends don't hurt each other, and I promise, when they took you from her, it was so you could be safe with me and Dad, not so you would be unhappy or scared."

His voice barely audible through his arm, Don tried to explain his agitation. "I love Mommy…but she hurts me…I want to be…with you and...with Daddy…but…I miss her."

"That's okay, Don. You don't have to apologize for loving her." Though Charlie was still pained by the words Thompson had said to him after court, the previous night he had thought long and hard about her relationship to Don and had reminded himself that since it was built on falsehood, eventually it would topple. In the meantime, he knew it would not be good to directly interfere with Don's feelings for Thompson, as he did not want to put an emotional distance between himself and Don, something that could occur if Don thought his brother was trying to keep him from the woman he thought his mother. Charlie decided to continue to address the problem by working backwards from the solution: he and his father were that solution, and they needed to help Don work back through his memories so that he could know the truth behind his current confusion- which was simply, they loved him and Thompson didn't.

Don quietly sucked his thumb, contemplating the idea that the people who had frightened him at Mommy's were actually his friends and that they cared about him. He allowed Charlie to put his arms around his waist, and shifted so he was leaning back, relaxing when he felt his brother's body covering him completely with his own.

Charlie still loved these moments with Don, where he felt that they were packaged together as one, a single entity with their spirits magically blended into an indefineable and inseparatable force. Larry checked on them, unwittingly breaking the spell between the two brothers. Don uncovered his face and sat up, Charlie uncurling from around him and asking, "Do you want to play that little game, Don? Find out more about your friends?"

Don decided to trust his brother and nodded, then he listened as Charlie explained how to play memory. He told Don the names of his friends while he pointed at their pictures-Megan, Colby, David, Amita, and then one of another friend he happened to find a picture of, Don's ex-partner in Fugitive Recovery- Billy Cooper. He said the last pictures were of their Aunt Irene and a former girlfriend, Terry.

Charlie went to get three chairs from the dining room, and while he was hauling the furniture to the solarium, he saw that his father was lying on the couch in the living room, asleep. He flicked his eyes over the still form, and wondered why he had not gotten enough rest while he was napping with Don. Charlie decided it was a matter he would ask him about later. Once the chairs were in place, Charlie, Don and Larry sat around the card table and began to play the game.

"Okay, turn over a picture and tell me who it is." Charlie directed Don.

The first picture was of Alan, and Don easily identified him as "Daddy." The next was Larry, and he answered correctly again, though they turned the pictures back over because they did not match. When Don chose the third picture, he could not remember Aunt Irene's name, so Charlie reminded him and added some information about the elderly woman, hoping to spark some memories. They spent the next hour playing the game, Don receiving 'kudos' from Larry each time he made a match, while Charlie continued to describe each person when they were turned over. When the game ended the fourth time, Charlie was disappointed with the results. Other than him, his father, and Larry, the only person Don seemed to remember was Megan, and he suspected that was because she was the person who had rescued him from Thompson, not because of the game; when Charlie asked Don to repeat some of the background he had given him about her, it seemed impossible for Don to remember anything that he had heard.

"What's wrong, Charles?" Larry could see the frustration growing in his friend the harder he ran his hand through his hair.

"I thought this would work- you know, help Don remember something about his friends and family. But it's been a complete failure. He's not even remembering their names." Charlie walked back and forth. Don was busy with the television, trying to find a baseball game but settling for some afternoon cartoons.

"Maybe your approach is not adequate in stimulating and maintaining his interest," Larry offered. "Are you applying the appropriate teaching techniques?"

"Well, Don is a multi-sensory learner. He touched the photos, which is kinetic; he saw the pictures, which is visual; and he listened while I explained the background of each person, which is auditory. I think I'm covered." Charlie sat down in a chair and stared at the pictures. "If he can't even remember their names, how is he going to remember anything else about them?"

"Hmm. That does seem to pose a problem. Well, I think your techniques do address each of three senses, and on the face of it, should be helping Don remember these friends and family members. Since the fault does not appear to be in your approach, then it may lie in the objects that you are utilizing. We did gather together all of those items from the storage boxes. Are any of those things associated with the people before us? Maybe we could use them in conjunction with the pictures."

"Maybe." Charlie stepped quietly into the living room, scanned the items on the coffee table that they had organized there. Nothing. He walked back into the solarium, crossing to the garage. "All that stuff has to do with Don and our mom- nobody else in the pictures. Maybe I can find something in here." Larry waited in the solarium and listened as Charlie worked his way through the garage, cringing a couple times when he heard something fall to the ground. A short time later, Charlie emerged, balancing three boxes in front of him. He dropped them to the floor at Larry's feet.

"We can give Don a little break and run through these boxes. Not sure if we're wasting our time, but what the heck? If nothing else, I can get rid of them if the stuff inside is worthless. My way of saying I've been cleaning the garage."

While Charlie dug into one box, Larry chose another. Charlie was halfway through what seemed a collection of old shoes and ties when Larry held up an item from his box and peered at it closely. "What in heaven's name is this contraption?"

Charlie looked up, paused while he thought about the odd object in his friend's hand, then he realized what Larry was holding. Smiling, he said, "That is one of my instruments. Remember, I told you my mom made me promise that I would keep music in my life if she allowed me to quit piano lessons, and I made up a whole bunch of those. I must have come up with twelve, thirteen instruments. That, I believe, was my version of pan pipes." Charlie took the strange-looking device from Larry's hand, turning it over and over. It was made up of four pipes of varying lengths welded next to each other in a line, with a hole at each tip that a finger could be placed over to change the sound that came out when one blew into the different pipes. Charlie put his mouth onto the instrument and blew, a strange lilting music wafting into the air. He played with it a few minutes, alternately covering one hole or another, blowing into one pipe and then another, eliciting different tones of the same flute-like music.

After he was finished fooling around, Charlie went to hand the instrument to Larry but paused when he realized that Don was at his side, seemingly entranced with his playing. "Did you like my song?" Charlie smiled.

Don nodded. He slipped his thumb in his mouth, patiently waiting for more.

Charlie thought about what Larry had said about the stimulation he had been providing Don not being enough to capture his attention, something that he had apparently done by simply playing a few notes on his instrument. It came to Charlie that music must be a big part of Don's life, more than he had ever known. When Don was upset, he responded well to Charlie singing or humming lullabyes in his ear. And playing their mother's music had obliterated his nightmares; even after seeing Thompson, it had kept them to a minimum the night before. With Don's interest now tweaked by his playing a random melody, Charlie wondered if he could use music to help Don remember the people he wanted him to, and if so, how?

Larry watched as Charlie puzzled over a problem that only he was privy to. Deciding he could not help, Larry began taking the rest of Charlie's instruments out of the box and laying them out on the table, wondering at the strange shapes and materials that had been combined to make them. If he had not thought his young friend a genius before, the care, craftmanship, and attention to detail of each object would have been enough to convince him. Putting aside the box, Larry attempted to play a couple of them. Though they appeared to be unique versions of instruments he was familiar with, Larry was stymied as to exactly how some of them would sound.

Charlie and Larry both noticed Don kept his eyes on whatever instrument Larry handled and tried to play. When the scientist held up and blew into a long, flute-like contraption with four two-inch bars crossing through it, a loud screech sounded in the room and all three men jolted, as if nails had been scratched down a chalkboard.

"Ew," Charlie laughed, "that's almost as bad as listening to Aunt Irene!"

He took the flute from Larry and was putting it away when he saw a frown had appeared on Don's face. "What's wrong? You don't want me to play this, do you?"

Don shook his head. Taking his thumb from his mouth, he asked with wide eyes, "Does she really?"

"Does who really what?" Charlie was puzzled.

"Sound like that?" Don pointed at the instrument. "Aunt Irene."

Chuckling, Charlie told him, "Well, maybe not as bad, but close." An idea suddenly hit Charlie in the head and he grabbed the picture of Aunt Irene off the table, handing it to Don. "Why don't you see if you remember if she really does? Concentrate on her face," Charlie blew a few more shrill notes, "now- can you picture her sounding like that?"

Don stared at the woman's face, trying to make her mouth move with the screeches coming out as words. He couldn't see her sounding like that. "I don't know," he said, licking his lips, "but…but…Aunt Irene…sounds scary."

Charlie and Larry were pleased. Don had remembered her name. Charlie placed all the pictures facedown again, and then turned a single one over- a picture of Larry. "What do you think he sounds like?" he asked. Then, he went through his array of instruments, until Don picked out the humming sounds that came from a harmonica-like one.

"That's what he does… when he thinks…hmmmmmmmm," Don said about Larry, who did just that before informing Don he had made a wise choice. Going through the pictures one at a time, Charlie let Don match an instrument to each person, allowing him to guess which sound would represent which individual. Charlie and Larry laughed when he chose a deep, booming gong sound for Alan, and had to take a small break when he decided upon a loud trumpet-like instrument for Colby. "That really is just like him," Charlie explained their amusement to Don while trying to catch his breath, "always tooting his own horn."

Megan elicited an exotic-sounding clarinet, David a thickly-strung miniature guitar that emitted a deep and solid pitch, Amita the tinkling of various homemade bells strung in a circle on a wire, Terry a ukulele, Billy Cooper the pitter-patter sound of a short and strange-looking drum, and finally, the appealing sound of the pan pipes that Larry first took from the box was assigned to Charlie. "It sounds nicest," Don told his brother, who couldn't help but be flattered.

"Now what do you have in mind?" Larry asked.

Charlie looked at the table and realized all of the instruments and their photos would not fit neatly on the table. So, he picked up the small guitar and gong then stuck them on the TV. Next, he took the drum and told Don to put it between his knees. He gave Larry the harmonica. The bells he hung from the chart hook on the wall behind him, and the trumpet he put next to Don on the couch. That left him with the shrill flute, the pan pipes, the ukulele, and clarinet on the table immediately in front of him. Charlie discarded the duplicate portraits and both of the ones of him and Larry, then he lined up the remaining eight photos, placing them upright in a semi-circle on the table, all at the front edge and facing Don.

"Okay, let's see what we can see," Charlie announced. He stood to the side of the table and then picked up the flute. When its shrill noise entered the air, he quickly asked Don, "Who's that?"

"Aunt Irene," Don immediately responded.

"Which picture is hers?"

Don looked at the portraits. He knew she had to be one of the four women. He recognized Megan's picture, which left him with three choices; he decided Amita and Terry were too pretty to sound like that. "Her," Don pointed at Aunt Irene.

"That's right!" Charlie exclaimed. "She's eighty years old, and we went to her birthday party last year. Sometimes she gives Dad a hard time, but she loves us so we don't mind. All right, let's try another one."

Charlie picked up the trumpet and gave it a blow. "Who likes to toot his own horn?" he asked.

Don tried, but he couldn't remember. Charlie pointed to the portrait of Colby. "Okay, that's your friend Colby. See how cocky he looks. He's the youngest person on your team."

"Baseball?" Don asked; being on a baseball team sounded right in his ears.

"No, though you used to be on a baseball team." This excited Don, and he sat up proudly in his seat. "When you were younger, you played on the Stockton Rangers, a minor league team. Right now you work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Your full name is Special Agent Don Eppes and there is a group of three people who work with you. They're your team members _and_ your friends. Colby is one of them. He used to be in the military. I think he went to Afghanistan and Iraq."

Wanting Don to have another success, Charlie nodded toward Larry, who obliged them by humming into the harmonica. "Who's that?"

"Larry, of course," Don responded, smiling. "He's our friend."

"That's right!" Charlie said, "But what else do you know about him?"

Don remained silent.

"Okay, Larry is a scientist. He works with me at CalSci and teaches physics. He used to eat only white food, but he gave that up about six months ago. Sometimes, he would help you solve your cases at the F.B.I. At one time, he and Megan dated."

Don looked at the picture of Megan, then over at Larry, who blushed when Don said incredulously, "Really?"

"Opposing forces in the universe often attract each other." Don assumed Larry meant _yes_.

Addressing Charlie, Larry asked, "Is it really necessary to bring up all aspects of our lives- including embarassing failures?"

"Of, course," Charlie stated matter-of-factly, "He needs to remember everything. Besides, it's not like he doesn't already know- he just forgot."

Unable to find a flaw in Charlie's statement, Larry decided not to argue.

Charlie stepped back and shook the bells. "Okay, who's this?"

Don couldn't say, so he waited while Charlie pointed to Amita's picture and told him her name. "She's the person I talked with on the phone last week- my friend and yours."

"Uh, hm." Larry coughed. "I think you might want to be a little more honest about your own failures, Charles."

Charlie puffed up his chest. "She is not a failure- at least, not yet." When Don looked at him and indicated he wanted further explanation, Charlie sighed. "Okay, I was"- Larry coughed again- "Am," Charlie said loudly, folding his arms and frowning at Larry, "I am in love with her, and her response to my feelings was to take off to India to do a research project." Charlie avoided further discussion of his relationship with Amita by telling Don some general information about her. "She is Indian- not American. Her grandparents came from the country of India. I was Amita's academic advisor while she did her thesis in math at CalSci. She has helped on some of your cases, too."

Stepping over to the TV, Charlie hit the gong. "Who's that?"

"Daddy," Don laughed.

"Do you remember anything about him?" Charlie asked quietly, hoping there was something in his brother's mind about their father.

"Hmmm." Don imitated Larry, cupping his chin with his hand, which made the other two men laugh. "He built things, right?"

"Right, Don. He was an engineer for the city." Charlie was relieved that he had at least a little knowledge of their father.

"Anything else?"

Don closed his eyes for a few minutes, and then opened them suddenly, smiling at Charlie. "We beat you."

"Huh?"

"At chess…we beat you." Don was beaming with pride. "Me and daddy…we tricked you."

Larry and Charlie laughed. "You remember that, Don? That's great!" But Charlie couldn't help lamenting, "I hope he doesn't just recall the times he got the better of me, otherwise he'll end up thinking he had the upper hand in our relationship."

"Ah, Charles- but didn't he?" Larry pointed out. Charlie opened his mouth and then clamped it shut again. How could he dispute the truth?

Moving on, Charlie took Don's hands and placed them over the drum, patting them up and down. "Who's this?"

"Don't know," Don said. He kept playing the instrument while Charlie told him it was Billy Cooper and pointed to his picture. "You worked in Fugitive Recovery with him- he was your partner. He said you were very good at your job. Last year, he came to Los Angeles and worked with us to find a man who escaped from jail. You and he captured the guy."

Charlie finished up with Megan, Terry, and David, playing the clarinet, ukelele, and guitar in turn while explaining their relationship to him. Don seemed embarrassed when Charlie discussed what he knew about his former girlfriend and partner, Terry. "She makes me...feel silly," Don told his brother. Charlie finally played the pan pipes, and asked Don what he remembered about him.

"Always…with me." Don frowned. "I think office…white and lots of…lights and people."

"Good, that's where you work, at the F.B.I." Charlie was pleased that Don seemed to be remembering bits and pieces of recent events in their lives. Not much, but enough to give him hope that things were really getting better.

"Okay, let's pick up the pace. Get ready with your harmonica, Larry, and you get ready with your drums, Don." Charlie took one last glance around the room, noting the position of the instruments. "Maestro, please."

Then Charlie was a flurry of motion. He grabbed the guitar and strummed it-

"Who's that?"

"Um," Don responded.

"Not quick enough!" Charlie said, "David Sinclair, your friend and team member."

Jumping back to the bells, Charlie shook them. "Who's that?"

"Uh, she's"- Don hesitated, but Charlie didn't.

"She's Amita, my love and your friend."

Charlie strode to the table and played the flute. Before he could ask the question, Don pointed at the correct picture and blurted, "Aunt Irene!"

"How old is she?"

"Eighty!"

"And who does she give a hard time?"

"Daddy!"

"That's right!"

Charlie blew into the trumpet.

"That's Colby," Don said, pointing at the correct portrait once again while starting to bob up and down on the couch. "He blows his horn."

"Right! Who does he work for?"

"The F.B.I."

"Who do you work for?"

"The F.B.I." Don shouted.

"Play your drum," Charlie ordered. Don obeyed, patting it. "Who's that?"

"Hmm, he's, uh," Don faltered.

"Too long," Charlie exclaimed, "Billy Cooper. He was your"-

"Partner," Don interrupted and then he pointed at Billy. "We worked in fug…fugitive…recovery...caught a badman."

"Yes!" Charlie pointed at Larry, who quickly played his harmonica.

"Larry," Don said, continuing to hit his drum. "CalSci…physics…and Megan but…no more."

Getting in on the action, Larry kept buzzing into his instrument, enjoying how Don's eyes shimmered with exuberance and his hands thump-thumped approval of the nonsensical tune Larry was playing. Charlie grabbed the bells from the wall, holding them out towards Don and shaking them, fairly shouting, "Who's this?"

"Amita," Don called, emphasizing his answer with a double-beat, then, "You love her…math major…your student…my friend."

"Yes, yes, yes," Charlie laughed. He kept hitting the bells against his hip in a steady beat while he grabbed the clarinet up from the table, giving it a long blow. "Who's this?"

"Megan!" Don started hitting the drum and moving back and forth on the couch in time to Charlie's beat, "team member…F.B.I…psycholo…psychology…my friend…kicks ass."

Charlie moved to the TV. He attached the bells to a loop on his jeans and shook his hips while he picked up the small guitar, strumming it as loud as he could. "Who's this?"

"David Sinclair," Don answered and pointed to his picture, no hesitation. "Friend…team member…F.B.I."

Charlie played the guitar back to the table, shaking the bells at his side the best he could. His frenzied energy had no end as he picked up the ukulele and stood plucking at it strings. "Who's this?"

"Terry," Don started laughing. He was having too much fun. "Partner… academy... girlfriend pizza…Laundromat…lots of kisses…" Don hit the drum one time for each letter he yelled out, "F..._thump…_B…_thump_…I..._thump_."

"Right!" Charlie dropped the ukelele and point two fingers at Don. "Who are you?"

"Special...Agent...Don...Eppes."

"Louder." Charlie demanded.

"Special...Agent...Don...Eppes!" Charlie yelped happily and Don pounded on his drum over and over in triumph.

Charlie hopped about the room, having as much fun as his brother. He dove from one instrument to the next, demanding Don identify the person who went with each, shaking his bells louder and louder as his excitement grew because Don was getting every single one correct and was adding a few tidbits about each person, facts that had not come from Charlie.

Soon, the room was a blur of strange music and ecstatic men- Don pounding on his drum and bouncing on the couch while shouting out the names and small background pieces of his family and friends; Charlie shaking his hips as he darted about the room, bells tinkling continuously while he sent the unique sounds of his homemade instruments throughout the air and dusted the atmosphere with the loud and quick questions he tossed at Don; and Larry, who got up from his seat while continuing to play the harmonica, dancing a light gig, something that very few of his friends knew he was well-practiced in doing.

Amidst this chaos, Charlie finally banged the gong one more time, and asked Don who it was. When he responded, "Daddy" at the top of his voice, another, louder one put a stop to their jubilee and they were all still, their eyes turning to the entryway that led into the solarium.

Alan stood there, his mouth in a frown, contemplating the spectacle that had woken him up. The elder Eppes hadn't been able to sleep when he had napped with Don because he kept waking up, convinced that his son had been taken from him. Eventually, he had just given up and settled for holding his son, reassuring himself of Don's presence by running his hands over his resting body. When he had come downstairs, Alan had had no choice but to fall asleep on the couch, the emotional stress having exhausted him. Until he heard the laughing and music coming from the solarium, the sounds so inviting he had put aside his anxiety and allowed himself to be lured to the comfort that they offered. Now, he stood in front of those guilty of luring him in, silently musing that the three men in front of him looked like deer caught in the glare of headlights. Stepping into the room, he allowed a large smile to capture his face. Then Alan lowered his voice as deep as he could, and bellowed, "I do not sound like that."

Charlie, Don, and Larry laughed. They put aside their instruments and all at once tried to tell Alan how well Don had remembered the faces and names of the people on the table, and the few memories he had recovered about them. Alan sat down next to Don and gave him a kiss on the head. "Things getting better, Donny?" he asked.

"I think so," Don answered.

"Well, now," Alan looked about the room. "What do I get to play?"

And the concert was on.


	51. How You Went To The Rescue

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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After their musical exertions Tuesday afternoon, Charlie and Alan noted that Don appeared tired. Not wanting to completely wear him out, they had a light dinner and then spent the remainder of the evening in their pool, joined by Larry. Intermittently, Charlie and Alan would tell Don more stories about himself, even a few which involved his mother, though they continued to avoid telling him that Thompson was not the person to whom they were referring. They did not want to set back Don's progress with the anxiety that fact would cause, deciding the moment for revealing the truth should be decided upon by whatever psychotherapist Wang found for them.

They finished with the pool, Larry eventually left, and when Don started yawning, they decided to go to bed early. All three Eppes were satisfied that the day had been a success, and were exhausted from their expressions of emotional cheerfulness for once, rather than their usual stress.

At that point, Charlie pulled his father aside, both men keeping their eyes on Don as he climbed into bed. He did not want to spoil the contented mood that surrounded them, but felt a small matter needed to be addressed.

"Dad, I noticed you fell asleep this afternoon on the couch- didn't you stay up here with Don during his nap?"

Alan recalled his promise to be truthful about his feelings with his youngest son, so he quickly confessed, "Yes, but I was kept awake by my own nightmares, Charlie. For some reason, I just can't shake this ominous feeling that I'm going to lose him. Not to you- at least, I don't feel that way anymore; but to her." Alan looked to the floor and shook his head. "If you think we should discuss this further, I will, but I've gone over it in my mind about a thousand times. I'm aware of the problem and don't think talking about it is going to make it go away."

Charlie put out a hand and brushed Alan's shoulder. "We don't have to talk it to death, as long as we have it out in the open. And since we're busy expressing our concerns, I have to admit that I'm afraid sometimes, too."

"I guess we won't feel he's safe until his memory completely returns." Alan smiled as he thought about the jubilant session they'd had with the instruments earlier that afternoon. "I think your brother is finally on the road to being the man he once was- my strong, determined son. _He'll_ handle that woman, don't you think?"

Charlie was quiet a few moments before he replied. "I don't know, Dad. Don really loves her. Even with his memory back, will he be strong enough to fight that feeling, and will he want to?"

"At least after today, I have some hope," Alan answered. Then they turned off the lights and settled into bed, wordlessly adjusting their limbs out of each other's way so that they both had a comfortable hold of Don.

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"Come on, Don," Charlie encouraged his brother, "just one more and you're finished."

It was after lunch on Wednesday, and Don was busy trying to pick up a three-inch block from a tray in front of him. He and Charlie were in the solarium, finishing up the last exercise he needed to do before he would take his nap.

The Eppes had gotten up early that morning, having had a restful night. The day had started out right because during breakfast they had received good news. Dr. Wang had called and informed them that the diuretics that Don was taking had effectively drained most of the excess cranial spinal fluid within his skull, that the resurgent increase of fluid that was typical after using the medication had been kept to a minimal, and that if his body continued to respond as well as it was currently doing, then it was sure to start self-regulating the fluid on its own; there was a distinct possibility that Don could be taken off the meds in a matter of weeks. Alan had thanked the doctor profusely, relieved that there was a good chance Don would not be on the diuretics for the rest of his life. Wang ended their conversation by giving him the name and phone number of a psychotherapist that he thought would work well with Don.

With this news and the previous day's excursion into silliness under their belts, Charlie and Alan had spent the rest of the morning gleefully playing games and working puzzles with Don, breaking in between for his gripping and tongue exercises. The only blot on their day had come when Harvey Johnson called to tell them that he had made Don an appointment for early Thursday morning, in order for him to receive a new evaluation for court. Thinking about the hearing and Thompson had put a slight damper on Charlie and Alan's mood.

Don picked up the block at last, and then carried it to its slot. Charlie allowed him to try to put it in its place for several minutes before he clicked off his stopwatch and told Don that he had done a good job, but it was time for him to rest. Don watched as Charlie took the tray and put it on the card table; he nervously sucked his thumb, trying to remember what he was supposed to do if he wanted to get Buddy back.

When he was done, Charlie told Don, "It's time for your nap. You better go-Dad's probably waiting for you."

Don remained seated and Charlie perceived that something was bothering his brother. He sat down beside him and held his hand. "What's wrong, Don?"

After pulling his thumb out of his mouth, Don quietly asked Charlie, "What's a...special...special agent?"

Oh, Charlie thought, he wants to understand some of the things we told him. He was glad that Don had asked the question. Most of the things that Don had remembered the day before had been recitations of the information that Charlie told him during their unique version of memory; Don had only been able to come up with a few snapshot memories on his own, which was a big enough improvement for them to justify their celebration, but it wasn't enough for anyone to positively state he was getting his entire memory back. Bits and pieces didn't add up to a whole, and Charlie did not want to fall prey to laziness because of the prior day's success. He knew there was still a lot of work ahead of them, and he was glad for opportunities like these, where he could help stimulate Don's memory without worrying about draining his energy, which playing the game had done.

"Well, a special agent is someone who solves mysteries, and saves people when they are in danger. They're brave, just like you told me I was. Only, a special agent has to be _especially _brave, because sometimes he puts his life in danger."

"That's what I did?" Don asked, amazed with himself.

"Yes, you sure did. A few times, you even saved me. I remember a badman was shooting at us and you pulled me down and covered me with your body. I was safe because of you." Charlie knew Don needed to understand that he was brave; otherwise, he would never have the emotional strength to force Thompson- with all her threats- out of his life.

"So, I protect...people?" Don needed to know. He was planning to do something that he knew would make Charlie and his daddy unhappy and it bothered him that he would be the cause of their sadness. He needed to know if what he was thinking of doing was something that was expected of him; if it was his job. If so, then he felt certain that his family would understand his actions and not be mad at him.

"Yes, Don, you sure do." Charlie hoped Don was asking because he was starting to shed, if only a tiny bit, the image that Thompson had planted in his mind that he was a child, not a man.

"My friends, too?" Don leaned towards Charlie in anticipation of his answer. "I would protect...my friends?"

Charlie nodded, thinking Don was talking about his team members. "You would always be there for them. You would do whatever you had to do in order to save them, even if you were afraid. That's the type of person you were and still are."

Don sat back, his question answered. All morning, Don had wondered if he was doing the right thing, that maybe he should tell his brother what had happened and depend on him to get Buddy. But he had remembered the day before, when Charlie said he was a special agent, and that brought up pictures in Don's mind of a dapper man in a black suit, carrying a gun and with gorgeous women all around him. Don knew that man was brave, and would do anything to save the world. So, he had asked Charlie if he was a special agent like the man he saw in his mind, if people depended on him to save them- including his friends. And Charlie had answered that question for him. He, Don Eppes, was a special agent, and it was up to him alone to save Buddy.

Charlie noticed that Don appeared relieved when he answered this last question, and he wondered why. He thought that maybe the information that he and his father had given Don was confusing him, because the image it gave him of the person he was had to be a stellar opposite of the one Thompson had portrayed him as being. But when Charlie looked Don over, he did not see the tell-tale signs of fear or anxiety that the suspected confusion would be causing. He noted that his brother seemed lost in thought instead and Charlie was interested in what he was thinking about. He let go of Don's hand and gently poked him in the side. Don let loose a slight giggle and pulled away. "Stop it," he said.

"What are you thinking about, Don?" Charlie asked, trying to playfully draw him out. He poked Don again.

Don gave a little laugh and held his hand over his side. "Don't Charlie."

"Then tell me what's really bothering you," Charlie said, poking him in several spots so Don could not protect himself. "I think you're holding out on me."

Don giggled while trying to brush Charlie's hands away. "Just tired," he lied.

Charlie gave up when he saw that Don appeared relaxed and no longer distant; he also kept in mind that he did not want to tire him any further. "Well, you better get to bed. But," he warned, "the first thing when you wake up, we're going to have a long talk."

Don nodded and then licked his lips, plunging right into his role of special agent when he heard Charlie mention naptime once again. "Kool-aide thirsty," he said. "Please."

"Well, let me see how much liquid you've had today. I think you might be able to have half a cup." Charlie rose and headed for the kitchen.

Working as fast as he could, Don hid the imposter rabbit, poking it up in the small space between the back of the couch and the wall. Then he left the room, heading for the stairs, where his father sat waiting for him at the bottom.

"Ready to sleep?" Alan asked him. Don nodded.

Charlie appeared with his sippy cup. "So the mountain decided to come to Mohammed for once," he smiled. "Well, I was right- you can have a half cup." He handed Don's drink to him and watched as he slurped it down. After Don gave it back to him, Charlie started to return to the kitchen, but then impulsively stopped and gave his brother a peck on the cheek.

Don rubbed his palm across the spot. "What's that for?" he asked.

"Just because I love you, I guess," Charlie replied. Then he turned on his heels and left, Don staring after him.

"All right, my son, let's get going." Alan led Don upstairs, stopping outside his bedroom and asking him if he needed to use the bathroom first. Don gave a negative response, so Alan led the way into the room. Once they were inside, Alan noticed Don was tugging at his left ear instead of Buddy's, who was nowhere to be seen. "Hey, where's your friend?"

"I left him down," Don said.

"Well, let me go get him. Can't have a proper nap without your best friend by your side." Alan started to move around Don, but stopped when his son said, "I can do it."

Alan raised two eyebrows. "You want to get him by yourself?"

Don's tongue moved out between his lips. "Yes...not a baby." He didn't know what else to say. When he had complained that he was being treated like a baby before, Daddy had listened to him and eaten the same food as he did. Don hoped that saying it again would convince his father to let him get the rabbit.

Alan was surprised that Don wanted to get Buddy on his own; usually, Don let his brother or father get everything for him. Thinking over the events of the previous day, Alan assumed Don had gotten a taste of his old self and wanted to establish a little independence. This seemed apparent to him because of Don's request, and because his son had forgotten the rabbit to begin with; Alan hoped it was a sign that Don was growing out of his need to have the toy with him at all times.

_This should be a good thing_, Alan thought to himself, _but I can't help feeling antsy about it._

He noted that what Don was asking for permission to do was a simple task: he would walk downstairs, pick up his stuffed toy, and then come back upstairs with it, which was not exactly equivalent to asking for permission to drive a car. It seemed silly to Alan to even debate whether he should let him go on his own- the house was locked up and Charlie would be downstairs with him, and besides, Don had been left alone in different rooms in the house plenty of times, ever since they had started making sure the house was impregnable, from the time that Thompson had made her unwanted visit. Still, for some reason Alan couldn't put his finger on, the request was bothering him and he was hesitant to say yes.

Alan finally settled his dilemma by deciding that Don could go on his own, but he would check on him if he didn't return in what he considered reasonable time.

"Where did you leave him, Donny?" Alan asked, wanting to know where he would be.

"The TV room," Don answered, tugging at his ear again. It sounded like Daddy was going to look.

"All right, go ahead. But come right back." Alan said firmly. When he saw the frown that formed on Don's face, Alan modified his tone to one of apology, "It's not that I don't trust you, Donny. I know you're not a baby. But I'm tired and really want to get some sleep, so you need to hurry back."

Don nodded and then fled the room. Hearing how his father trusted him made Don feel bad. He knew he needed to get Buddy back, but he hated that he had to lie to Charlie and Daddy to do it, especially after he had gotten so mad when he thought Charlie had lied to him. He hoped they would eventually forgive him for what he was about to do.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Don ran into Charlie, who was exiting the kitchen. "Where are you off to?" Charlie asked.

"Left Buddy," Don lied.

"Oh, he must be in the solarium," Charlie said. "You go back upstairs. I'll get him."

"Okay," Don said. He waited for Charlie to leave, but was frustrated to see his brother stood there looking at him.

"Go upstairs, Don. I'll bring him to you."

Not having a choice, Don began to slowly walk up the stairs. When he saw Charlie turn, walk through the living room, and enter the solarium, he carefully snuck back down and headed into the kitchen. Once there, he used his left thumb and index finger to push and tug at the deadbolt till it unlocked; by using the new lever handle that Charlie had installed a few days earlier, he turned the knob and pulled the door open. Then, he was outside and heading towards the driveway, where Melinda suddenly appeared between the hedges that ran along its border.

"Hurry, baby, we have to go."

"Buddy," Don said when he got to her.

"Yes, he's in the car." Melinda took his hand and pulled him with her, both of them disappearing through the hedge to the other side where her car sat with its engine running.

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Charlie checked the solarium, but he couldn't seem to find Buddy. But he has to be here, he thought, tugging at a lock of hair. He had seen the rabbit next to Don when he left to get the kool-aide, and Don didn't have him in his arms when standing next to their dad at the bottom of the stairs. Charlie hadn't thought anything of it at the time, but now he began thinking along the same lines as his father: Don was growing away from his attachment to the toy, and it was a good indication of his emotional development. If he reviewed Don's behavior over the last two days, it did seem as if his brother hadn't been as affectionate with the toy as he usually was. He hoped that Don had started to believe them, that he was a man, which would mean he did not need to rely on a stuffed toy for protection. But Don had apparently decided that being without Buddy during naptime was too hard, so Charlie needed to find him. Otherwise, he was afraid that Don would not be able to sleep.

Charlie contemplated where he should concentrate his search. Don had last had the rabbit on the couch and somewhere between it and the stairs the toy had magically disappeared. Because he hadn't seen it lying along the path he took to get to the room, he figured it had to be somewhere around the couch. Charlie looked underneath it, but did not find the rabbit. He did find his flute, however, dropped on the floor after their impromptu concert the day before. Smiling, he picked it up and placed it on the table, thinking it would be fun if they could play the game again sometime in the next few days, once Don had plenty of energy.

Charlie turned back to the couch and wondered if the rabbit had fallen behind it. With a grunt, he pulled it away from the wall, and then grinned when he saw the lumpy bundle plop to the ground.

"There you are, you rascally rabbit," he said in his best imitation of Elmer Fudd, and then grabbed it by a leg. He swung it back and forth as he headed to the stairs, his eyes on the rabbit's balding ear as it moved, wondering if it would be possible to replace the missing hairs. Without conscious thought or effort, his mind calculated how many strings were in each centimeter of the fabric and determined quickly that the left ear was down to three-hundred and forty-two hairs.

Charlie stopped.

That couldn't be right. When he had held Buddy the previous week, after his tiff with Don, he had calculated the ear had only two-hundred and eighty-seven hairs left. They were only estimates, but there was no way he was off by fifty. And since stuffed toys didn't grow hair, he knew there could be only one reason for the difference between his first calculation and second.

This rabbit wasn't Buddy.

Charlie held the toy out in front of him. It looked worn, just like Buddy, only now that he took a really good look at it, maybe it did seem different. Doing as his brother had two days prior, Charlie started turning the rabbit over in his hands. When he also noticed the absence of the stitches on the toy's bottom, a sudden chill ran up from his toes through his spine to his head, making his shoulders involuntarily jerk.

Charlie knew exactly when the exchange had to have taken place. In court, Thompson must have known he would come looking for Buddy and had purposely been holding the fake one in her hand for him to nab. He began to pace angrily. No wonder Don had been less than loving with the toy. His brother had obviously been aware of the difference two days before, and that was why he had sped after Thompson when court was over. Charlie was positive that Thompson stole the stuffed toy as leverage for Don to do something in case she failed in court, which _had _occurred as Don had refused to name her as his physician. But what exactly was it that she told Don to do? Charlie knew that a court investigator would need to come to their house before he was given conservatorship. Was it possible she wanted Don to lie and say that he and his father were hitting him? Or, was it something else? How could he find out what she wanted his brother to do?

He started swinging the rabbit again, his finger across his lips as he thought. Thompson was smart. Whatever she had told Don on Monday had to be important, because she had made sure that nobody could hear what she said. And _she was smart._ She had to know that giving Don verbal directions was an iffy thing to do, even if she did have Buddy as a captive; with Don's thought processes messed up, it could be difficult for him to remember what was expected of him, especially if he was supposed to obey her days after receiving his orders. Again, this had to have been evident to her during the hearing, when Don had not followed what they supposed were her previous directions for him to say that she was his doctor. So, if she wanted to make sure that Don obeyed her this time, she would have wanted to be absolutely certain that he remembered what he had to do.

Charlie stopped and looked at the rabbit. He realized the best way for Thompson to remind Don would be to communicate her wishes in a permanent way, like writing them on the only thing that she'd had in her possession and knew she could give to Don without anyone being suspicious. And that was the toy he held in his hand. Quickly, Charlie began a thorough inspection of the rabbit, looking for any hidden messages or even a recording device that might have been implanted in the toy. It did not take him long to find the black marks deep inside the rabbit's left ear.

The writing was faded and hard to read, so Charlie stepped over to the light in the dining room, and bent the ear back; he pulled it flat so that he could more clearly see what was written there.

_Driv ay nap We nsday_

Charlie's mouth went dry and he found that he could not breathe, the world around him spinning and fading in and out of his conscious mind as he inferred what Thompson meant for Don to do. The air was suddenly thick and he felt like he was drowning, every last inch of his body held down by an unseen force. Thompson's taunting from Monday rang in his ears, that he had lost Don in the courtroom. Only, he now believed she hadn't been referring to the court proceedings, she had been talking about stealing Buddy and the power it gave her to get his brother to come to her, making the doors and windows they had bolted worthless in defense against her.

When Charlie's lungs finally forced him to take in a ragged breath, he was free; he dropped the rabbit and ran. Through the dining room, into the kitchen, slamming through the open back door, and out, down the driveway, his eyes searching desperately in every direction, then to the sidewalk, where he saw a small, white car screeching around the far corner, instinctively knowing that it was carrying his brother away from him.

And then Charlie couldn't breathe again, so he collapsed to his knees and sat back on his bottom, silent sobs raking deep rifts into his soul.


	52. What You Decided

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

Author's note: Sorry this took so long. I actually wrote this chapter and the next as one, but found a good breaking point so I'll list them separately. Will have Chapter 53 up by tonight. Should finish three more and the final probate hearing one by end of this week. Thanks for being patient. I had final papers due for college last week of July, and my sisters and I visited my dad this past week in Kentucky, so I couldn't work (though I tried, but two sisters arguing "you can do that when you go back home" made the point that my computer had to remain shut). I'm sorry I have yet to respond to the last reviews. I always appreciate getting them and will respond soon.

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Don nervously stood next to the car, waiting while his mommy opened the back door. He looked behind him once or twice, debating whether he should go back home and let Charlie rescue Buddy instead of him, but the decision was made for him when he was pulled into the car and heard the door slam behind him. Before he could respond, they were driving away, and he turned in his seat one last time, catching a glimpse of Charlie standing on the sidewalk, so very far away from them, before they turned a corner.

Melinda sat in the back with Donny, her lawyer driving the car. She looked at her son. She could tell that he was afraid to be in the car with her. He was huddled in the corner of the backseat, sucking his thumb while avoiding her eyes. Before she began to talk to him, she contemplated all that she was seeing.

She knew he could not think she was carrying the belt with her; late the previous week, she had finally jimmied open the lockbox and discovered it was empty. So, the little brother must have taken it, probably giving it to his F.B. I. friends to look for DNA evidence that it had been used on her son. Since her lawyer had not been contacted about further findings, she assumed this attempt had proven futile.

Still, for some reason, her little boy did not seem to want to be with her.

This was not in her favor. The Eppes' lawyer would be filing their petition papers again and the court investigator would be talking with her son. It would not be advantageous if Donny said he was afraid of her. Of course, by Monday or Tuesday at the latest, she would be the first choice in placement for any decision determining conservatorship. But Fairfield had warned her that the judge would take Donny's interview with the court investigator into consideration. Any statement from her son that she was violent would at the very least cause the court to wait to give her permanent papers until the investigator had come to her home and talked to her personally, leaving her son with the Eppes or a state conservator until the statements could be verified to be true or false. By that time, Donny might have enough nerve to let everyone know all about her secrets- which would land her in jail and keep him from her forever.

This Melinda could not have.

Not when she was so close.

Carefully, Melinda took Buddy out of a bag sitting on the floor. Don's eyes lifted at the movement and froze in place when they saw what she was holding.

"I told you I had Buddy here with me," Melinda said softly, "but I'm afraid that Mommy can't give him to you just yet."

Don could not keep his eyes off his friend, but he was still able to listen to every word his mommy said.

"Baby, you were such a good little boy for Mommy on Monday," Melinda continued, trying to ease her son's uneasiness at being in her presence, "remember, when we were in court, that room with the big, old fat man at the front?" She did not expect her son to answer. "You said everything that Mommy wanted you to say; you were just perfect. I'm so proud of you."

Don remained where he was, on his guard. He knew his mommy no longer had the belt, but he also knew she could be just as quick to slap or pinch him if she so desired, which could hurt just as bad as being belted; sometimes, it was even worse. Because of prior experience and his recent nightmares, he decided it was best not to trust his mommy, though it did make him feel good to hear her praise. He had a distinct desire to tell her all the other things he had been doing, how he had been learning to move his tongue and grip with his hand, that he could open the door by himself and no longer had to wear his special briefs- and that he was a special agent man. But he remembered when she had visited him at Daddy's and misunderstood everything he had told her, making it seem like he hadn't done anything good. She had gotten angry then and he suspected she would again if she knew all the activities he was finishing and how proud his family was at all he had accomplished. Don decided that no matter how much he wanted _her _to be proud of him, too, it was best to keep all of this to himself; after all, if Mommy could have secrets, so could he.

"We have a bit of business to take care of today. Do you think you can be a good little boy for Mommy one more time, baby? Do you? I just know you can." Melinda began to talk slowly, emphasizing every word so that her son could easily follow along. "Now listen very closely, because you have to say and do everything _exactly_ the way Mommy says, and then I will give you Buddy and you can go back to Daddy and Charlie's house. Does that sound good?"

Don did not move for several minutes. He stared at Buddy, held under Mommy's left arm while she petted his head. He frowned. Buddy doesn't like to be petted that way, he thought. Slowly, he moved his eyes to meet his mommy's and he nodded, knowing he would do whatever she wanted if it meant he could have his friend back.

"You're such a good little boy, Donny. Now, remember how I told you to call me Dr. Thompson in court?" She waited until he nodded again. "Well, today I want you to call me Melinda. Can you repeat that for me?"

Don removed his thumb and said, "Melinda."

"That's right, baby. You make Mommy so proud."

Don tried not to respond to the praise, but he couldn't help it. A tiny smile found its way to his lips and he sat up straight, listening, telling himself he needed to perform perfectly so he could get Buddy, that he was listening to Mommy for that reason alone, not because he still had a deep need inside himself to please her; he didn't want to face that fact because he was afraid that Charlie and Daddy would be disappointed to know he still loved her that much, that it rose in him when he was in her presence, slipping through his fear of her.

"Now, you have to make sure you don't suck your thumb. Can you do that for Mommy?" Melinda waited until Don said yes. "Oh, baby, you're such a good little boy. I just know you're going to say and do everything just the way I want you to."

Don paid attention to every single thing Mommy told him he had to do and say. He was sure he could follow her directions, rescue his friend, and be home before Charlie and Daddy got too worried or angry at him.

And Mommy would be happy and proud of him, maybe enough that she wouldn't come visit him in his dreams with the belt. Don remembered his mommy hadn't come the night before, and he wondered if it was because he had done so well on Monday, in that room with the fat man. This idea caused Don to sit up straighter and concentrate on his mommy's words. He felt that doing what she said would garner him several rewards: Buddy, her praise, and no bad dreams that night.

The rest of the afternoon went so fast, Don wasn't sure what was happening. Mommy made him leave the car and they went into some building together, standing still until her lawyer showed up after parking the car. Then everything was move here, go there, some questions asked him and Mommy that they had to answer, he signed his name and showed some pictures of himself to a lady, comments running around him that he didn't quite understand about him and Mommy not looking that far apart in age and how much they must love each other, and then some papers were stamped and they were back in Mommy's car, driving until the lawyer stopped in the corner of a parking garage and shut the engine off.

Melinda sat facing her son. He continued to keep his body and face turned from her. She picked up Buddy and gently placed him in his lap.

Quickly, like a flash, he began to turn the rabbit about until he was certain he was holding his friend and not another imposter. Apparently satisfied, he relaxed into the seat, eyes closed; tugging on the rabbit's left ear and purposely sucking his thumb, getting comfortable with his friend again.

"Are you happy, baby?" Melinda asked. As far as she was concerned, Donny was to be hers shortly. However, she wanted to make sure the court had no reason to argue her belief, so she decided to use the last bit of arsenal she had left available to her to provide her son another reason for returning to her.

Don kept his eyes closed and concentrated on Buddy. The rabbit felt like it had been washed and smelled nice, like fresh flowers.

"Baby, I really need to know. Are you happy with your daddy and Charlie?" Melinda felt they had plenty of time to talk, so she went slow and easy, wanting her son to trust her enough to fall into her trap.

Don sighed contentedly. He removed his thumb and wrapped both arms around Buddy. "Yes, Mommy," he replied, his eyes staying shut.

"Does Charlie still do so many things for you?" Melinda asked, making sure to keep her voice tone at a higher pitch and her volume low, trying to evoke an air about her of interest and awe, as if really impressed by her son's brother.

Careful to avoid sounding too happy, which might upset his mommy, Don answered flatly, "Yes, Mommy."

"Oh, that's so amazing. I wonder how he manages to do all those things and his job, too. He does have a job, doesn't he?"

Don opened his eyes and pulled his body up in his seat. He hadn't thought too much about Charlie's job. Thinking hard, he remembered that during the memory game, Charlie had told him that he and Larry worked at Cal Sci.

"Works at Cal Sci," Don told her.

"Really, baby, what does he do there?" Melinda inquired.

"He teaches," Don said smiling, pleased he could recall so much of what Charlie had told him.

"Oh, that's just _wonderful,_" Melinda stated as if amazed.

Don's smile widened. His brother must have an important job if it impressed his mommy. Melinda shifted in her seat, moving next to her son. Their legs were two inches from each other.

"Why, with a prestigious job like that, I bet he teaches every day. Tell me, how many days does he work?"

Don couldn't answer that question. As far as he could tell, Charlie was always home- always taking care of him. He didn't understand how Charlie could work at Cal Sci and be home at the same time.

"Don't know," Don said.

"Doesn't he like his job?" Melinda ran her fingers down his arm, her son so preoccupied with her questions that he did not seem to notice.

"I think so." Don wasn't sure, but if Charlie taught math and he was good with numbers, it made sense that he liked his job. Probably more than liked, Don thought, he must love getting paid to work with numbers.

"Oh, he must be a wonderful brother, to give all of that up." Melinda waited for him to think about the implications of her statement.

Don sat silently. He hadn't thought about that. Charlie said he worked as a teacher, but he was never gone. It was possible that Charlie had quit his job, though Don had no idea if he had or not. Even if he hadn't, it was clear that Charlie had not been teaching ever since Don had come home from the institute, and it was obvious why: he couldn't, because he had to take care of his brother.

And that's when Melinda's last weapon started to work, because Don didn't like to think of himself as a burden. Guilt emerged and started to infiltrate what emotional stability his family had brought him, and he began to wonder what other sacrifices his family was making for him.

Melinda was ready with the answers. "What about your daddy? Does he work, too?"

"No, he's retired." Don knew it was okay for Daddy to be home.

"But what about his business?" Melinda asked softly, settling against her son so that their bodies were now touching shoulder to toe.

"He don't have one." Daddy never said anything about a business.

"Yes, you're correct, baby, now I remember. He had to sell it to pay for your doctor visits." Melinda smiled when Don stiffened against her.

"He did?" Don pressed into his mommy, not wanting but needing to know if he was responsible for anything bad that had happened to his daddy and Charlie.

"Oh, baby, it's not your fault and it's not your family's fault either. They just don't have a lot of money." She soothed him with a kiss on the forehead. "Not like mommy does. Mommy has lots of money to pay for everything her baby needs."

Don thought about all the neat things Charlie had bought for him. He was ashamed to think how excited he'd been to get them, now that he knew Charlie really didn't have the money to buy them. And where did Charlie get what little money he had if he didn't go to his job? They didn't pay you money for staying at home with your worthless brother, did they? Don couldn't believe anyone did. He decided that Charlie and Daddy must be using the money left from Daddy's business, the one he _had_ to sell because of him. Don hated that his daddy had to do that, just because he had one son that couldn't do anything by himself. His family loved him and was doing everything they could for him, but what had he done for them? He had been told that his job was to protect and save people, but Don hadn't been doing that, not except when he came to rescue Buddy, and he didn't think anyone would pay him for that.

Don hid his face against Melinda, laying aside his fear of her, needing and looking for her comfort instead, readily finding it as she wrapped her arms around him, ensnaring him in her embrace.

How could he not realize that he was costing his family so much?

"Now, baby, don't start crying. Nobody is mad at you. Your brother and daddy don't blame you, and I don't blame you, either. Maybe they have friends that can help out?" she asked, wanting to take the conversation in another direction.

"Maybe." Don thought about Larry. He didn't come to their house everyday, so he was probably still working at Cal Sci and had plenty of money.

"Do you know any of your brother's friends?"

"Larry," Don answered.

"Nobody else?" Melinda slipped her hands down around Don's waist and under his shirt, feeling the slight trembling that blended with the heat of his body.

"No," Don replied. He didn't know why Mommy was asking.

"How about your daddy- does he have any friends?"

"No." That didn't make sense, though. Daddy was very nice, so he had to have friends.

"Don't they ever have anyone come over?" Melinda massaged his bare skin, wanting to make a strong sensory memory of the feel of him. It would be at least five more days before she could touch her son again.

"No, just Larry."

"Oh, dear. I guess they just don't have time to spend with their friends." Melinda waited patiently while Don tensed again. "I suppose that's alright. I'm sure they always stayed at home _before _you went to live with them."

They have time, Don thought. Charlie spends lots of time with Larry. But he remembered that Charlie had said that he had other friends, and Don knew none of them ever came over and Charlie never left to meet them. He had been jealous of the time Charlie had spent with Larry, and they had resolved that problem; Charlie knew that he didn't mind if he decided to be with his friends, so that couldn't be the reason Charlie stayed home. Mommy must be right, Don reasoned, Charlie and daddy had no time to do what they really wanted to do, and with the people they wanted to be with- all because he had to be taken care of.

"Could if they want," Don said doubtfully.

"Well, you're right, I think. Even if they have to do so many things for you, I'm sure they could do other things if they really wanted to." Don was starting to feel a little better when Melinda added, "It's a good thing they're young and healthy. Otherwise, I would be afraid they wouldn't have the energy to care for you _and _do those other things."

"Not daddy…he's not young," Don told her. And he gets tired a lot, too, he thought. Don remembered the last thing Daddy said to him, that he was real tired and wanted to get some sleep. And yesterday, he had slept on the couch even though they had just taken a nap. At night, he was always groaning and his bones creaked, both signs that his daddy was in pain a lot. Don blamed his inability to care for himself for that pain- Daddy wouldn't be tired and his body wouldn't hurt if he didn't have to do so many things for his no good son. No wonder Daddy couldn't do or go anywhere else.

Don started to cry.

He didn't want his family to have to spend all their money on him and spend all of their time away from their friends and not go to the jobs they loved; he didn't want Daddy to hurt and be in pain because it was hard to take care of him. Ever since he had gone to live with his family, it had never entered his mind that he might be hurting them, but it had to be hard for Charlie and Daddy, always staying home because they couldn't leave him by himself. That would be especially true after today. They would know they couldn't trust him to be alone because he might lie and take off again, and then they would have to stay in the house and wouldn't be able to see their friends or do anything else but take care of him- forever.

'Shh, baby, don't cry. Nobody blames you. It's just the way the world works." Melinda gently lifted Don's face to her own, and kissed away his tears. "Mommy doesn't have any friends, and she has lots of money, enough to pay for everything. It's a mommy's job to take care of her little boy, anyway. Don't you want me to?"

Don dropped his head, allowing his mommy to guide it to rest on her breast, while he was thinking about Charlie and Daddy and the misery they must be hiding- all caused by him.

"If you let me," Melinda whispered, "I can solve their problems. I'll pay all of your bills so Charlie and your daddy don't have to worry about them anymore. And if your daddy wants his business again, I can buy it for him, too. Then he and your brother can go back to doing the work they love, and seeing the friends they miss, and doing the activities they enjoyed- everything they did before they had to take care of you. And when they want to, they can even visit you, too."

Feeling the time was right, Melinda reached in her bag and pulled out a bottle, bringing it to her son's face and laying its nipple against his lips as an invitation to accept or reject her offer.

Don thought about his family and how much he loved them. Don knew he couldn't do many things on his own and had to rely on _somebody_. He did not want to be dependent upon his family to provide for him and he didn't want to have to rely on Mommy, either, but he had no choice: it had to be one or the other. Don loved being with his family; they were always nice and taught him how to do a lot of things. Mommy could be nice, too, but she could be mean if he didn't do exactly what she said, and she wanted him to be a baby; he wanted to be a special agent man. But it wasn't fair to make his family suffer just so he could have what he wanted. It seemed that it would be best for everyone else if he chose to rely on Mommy. Charlie and Daddy had lives of their own before he came into their home, while Mommy had always just had him. It made sense to go back to the way it had been before, with Mommy happy to take care of him, and Charlie and Daddy happy to be able to do the things they loved to do and with the people they wanted to see, and without Daddy hurting all the time.

Don wrapped himself around his mommy, knowing he could stay with her if it would be better for the brother and father he loved, even if it wasn't what he really wanted. When he felt the coolness of the rubber against his mouth, he knew what his mommy was offering and the stipulations that he would have to meet if he accepted her offer. With the welfare of his father and brother foremost in his mind, Don relinquished himself to his mommy's care, believing he was doing what was best for his family.

Melinda smiled when she saw her son close his eyes and begin to drink in submission to his chosen fate.


	53. How You Returned to Us

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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Charlie forced himself to his feet and ran back to the house. It wasn't until he flew into the dining room and almost knocked Alan over that he realized he had the daunting task of informing his father what had happened.

Alan held up the toy rabbit that Charlie had dropped on the way out of the house "Don came downstairs to get this, but I just found it on…"

He knew. Without Charlie saying a word, he knew. And it was too much for Alan. His strong façade cracked and his sanity slid a foot to the left. Grabbing Charlie by the shoulders, shaking him furiously, he yelled, "How could you? I trusted you. Don trusted you. How could you let her take him again?"

Then the sobbing came and Charlie held his father as they sank to the floor together, the older man too big and heavy for his youngest son to hold up. For minutes that felt like forever, they clung to each other, both trying to reel in their emotions, to try and understand why this could keep happening to them, what evil force had been loosed upon the world and directed at them and only them.

The need for action gripped Alan, and he pulled from Charlie, mumbling an apology as he went to grab his keys. Despite Charlie's protests, Alan left the house, got in his car and drove away to search for his son.

The need for reason gripped Charlie, and he called Megan, Colby, and David, knowing they were better prepared to conduct a search than he was. He told them that Thompson had stolen his brother and he was afraid that they were on their way out of town. Being on vacation, Megan easily started searching for Don, calling up the airline and bus terminals, requesting that they be on the alert for a man and woman matching Thompson and Don's description; as a good measure, she also described Gordon Fairfield, thinking he might be accompanying them. Megan left them her private phone number to call instead of the Bureau's; she did not want Director Donaldson to find out she was doing anything that would cause Thompson or her lawyer to file more complaints. When she finished her calls, Megan followed Alan's lead and began to personally drive up and down the streets of L.A., hoping that on the off-chance she might find her lost colleague while she purposefully ignored the fear that was clenching at her heart.

David and Colby stayed at work for two hours, making phone calls to the local police station in what would be a fruitless effort to get outside help in looking for Don: "There is no law that says a grown man can't take off with his grown lover any time he wants" they were informed. They also called the local car rental agencies to try to track down the white car that Thompson was supposedly driving, guessing it had to be a rental after they found there was no record that either she or her lawyer had purchased a new one. That task also got them nowhere; she had apparently borrowed the car, rented it out of town, or purchased it under another name, and they did not have the time to find out which it was.

The two agents were forced to talk quietly during their phone calls, so they would not be overheard by anyone else in the office; they were definitely not supposed to be doing anything that might concern their former boss and Dr. Thompson. When they were finished, they made excuses and escaped from the Bureau, heading to the streets to do the only thing they thought they could, and that was the same as Megan and Alan- drive around looking for Don.

Late in the day, Megan thought to call Bob Anderson in Alta Sierra. She asked the old man if he had seen any activity at his neighbor's house and received a concerned _no_ in response. "I'm not sure what's happening," she told him, "but can you give me a call if you see her come home. I know it sounds insane, but we think Thompson took Don again."

Bob promised to keep an eye on Thompson's house, and Megan continued with her visual search.

Charlie stayed at home, placing himself in the garage with a local area map, continuously walking from one chalkboard to the next, writing down points on grids of all the areas that the team members had searched in L.A., trying to coordinate the calls that came in from the agents while keeping track of his father. He called Alan every half hour and insisted that he come home, but his demands were ignored. As time passed, Charlie was becoming more concerned about him. He knew that the first time Don disappeared it had wrecked his father; he did not want to know what it was going to do to him a second time. When it was past six o'clock, Charlie called the only person he thought might be able to locate his father and convince him to give up his search; Larry readily offered his help and promised to call Charlie if he found him.

By seven, Colby, Megan, and David agreed to group up at the Eppes and form a plan of action. When they arrived, Charlie greeted them at the door and led them to the living room. They all refused an offer of a seat, too much nervous energy flooding their veins to enable them to be still.

"Dad won't come home," Charlie told them. He was standing at the front window, tensely twisting the curtain between his fingers. "I told him it was useless to keep searching. We need to figure out where she took him. But he's lost it again, like the first time Don disappeared. I'm sure he's driving up and down the streets seeing Don every few feet." Charlie looked at his friends. "I asked Larry to try to find him, but if Dad doesn't come home soon, we'll have to go search for _him_."

The sound of a door opening behind them led all four people to turn and stare at the entryway. Alan slowly emerged, followed closely by Larry. The scientist had found him easily enough; the eldest Eppes had been the point car in a long line of traffic. Alan had been sitting at his wheel, staring ahead of him and unable to move, the vehicles behind him honking incessantly until a police officer appeared. Larry had luckily shown up at the same time, and had been able to talk the officer into letting him take his friend home, explaining politely and vaguely that the man sitting at the wheel had just lost his son. After parking Alan's car in a lot up the street, Larry had walked back to where the sympathetic officer held him in the backseat of his squad car. Then, with a gentleness that he alone in the world possessed, Larry had helped Alan to his own car sitting double-parked by the side of the road and driven him home.

Alan's appearance made the team members gasp. His entire body seemed sunk in, his shoulders slumping, his frame thin and worn, his skin pallid. Alan's face was hollowed from stress and forlorn sadness, his eyes surrounded and colored with deep circles that accented the lack of life within them. The only signs the man was a living being were the facial ticks that triggered movement around both eyes and the corners of his mouth. After he entered the room and passed by its occupants, dropping onto the couch, more ticks could be seen as his right shoulder and both knees jumped every thirty seconds on their own accord.

Charlie and Megan both went to Alan, sitting on either side of him. He held his father's hand and gently massaged it, she held her friend's arm and tried to say a litany of soothing words, but it was clear that none of their actions were affecting Alan; the elder Eppes was in his own little world, unconscious of those around him.

Twenty minutes passed, Charlie and Megan continuing their tender machinations while Colby and David moved to stare out the front window, all of them wondering what they could do to find Don and all of them feeling guilty for allowing him to be taken again, but none of them able to put voice to their feelings or come up with a solution to the problem.

"Son of a bitch!" Colby suddenly cried. He and David ran out the front door, Larry close at their heels. Charlie and Megan looked at each other puzzled, curious at the outburst but afraid to leave Alan, who had not responded; his eyes had closed and he was slowly descending into a depressive state of mind.

David and Colby quickly arrived at the curb outside the Eppes' home, flashing their badges and demanding the cab driver to stay put. Don was sadly standing on the sidewalk, his eyes looking at the ground and his thumb in his mouth, Buddy held in his arm. Colby visually checked him for any signs of physical harm while David talked to the cab driver. A few minutes later, and David stepped back to where they were standing.

"She didn't even pay for the cab," David shook his head. "I just shelled out over fifty bucks. That"- but then he realized Don was probably listening to what he was saying, so David dropped the complaint from his lips and lowered his voice. "Hey, Don. It's good to see you."

Don looked up at the two men. He recognized them from the memory game- they were special agents, too.

And his friends.

"Hi," he said around his thumb. His friends observed Don's stance and childish mannerisms. It was horrible to see what Don had been reduced to, knowing the person he had been before. But Colby and David were able to put their own uneasy feelings aside; they were like the Eppes, good people, and this was still their friend standing in front of them, no matter what Thompson had done to him. They concentrated on him and his feelings, not their own, so that they could address him in a manner which would not frighten him.

"Your dad and Charlie are waiting inside, Don," Colby said softly. "I think you need to let them see that you're okay."

Don nodded, and then started towards the house, his eyes downcast, while David and Colby followed quietly behind. Halfway up the stairs, he saw a pair of feet in front of him. Following them up to the face above them, Don smiled when he saw they belonged to Larry, and gave his friend a hug. Then they entered the house together.

Charlie and Megan sprang to their feet.

Don was walking into the living room, shuffling his feet and trying to avoid looking at them, Larry, Colby, and David keeping guard behind him.

Charlie couldn't believe he was looking at his brother. He ran forward and threw his arms around him, registering in the back of his mind that Don was holding Buddy and that a small stain that looked like milk had wet a circle into the front of his t-shirt. Tears fell from his eyes and he refused to let go, not knowing how to put into words all the fears, anxiety, sadness, misery, loss, and terror that had been undulating through him since he had seen him last.

"Sorry," Don told his brother.

Charlie tightened his arms around Don. "I don't want to hear that your sorry, Don. I want to hear you promise me that you'll never, ever do that again." He released his hold on Don, cupped his face and forced him to lock eyes. "Promise me, right now, say _I won't leave again_."

But Don knew he couldn't make that promise, so he began to cry.

"Sorry, sorry," he told his brother. He held up Buddy. "Special agent."

Charlie was taken aback with this explanation, guilt ramming him as he blamed himself for Don taking off with Thompson. He never should have told Don he could rescue a friend; that was the old Don, and the one Charlie had been talking to was a child who could not understand the explanations he had been given.

"I'm sorry, Don, I didn't know you were talking about Buddy. I would have gotten him back for you." Charlie pulled him into another embrace. He knew the next day the first thing they had to do was make an appointment with the psychotherapist Wang had recommended. Charlie wanted to know if there was anything else that he or his dad were telling Don that might be confusing or upsetting him.

It was several minutes later that Charlie realized his father was still sitting on the couch, his eyes closed, lost to the world. He led Don by the hand to their father, and motioned for his brother to sit next to him.

Don sat down. He didn't know what to say to make his daddy feel better, so he leaned forward and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. Alan's eyes fluttered open and he stared at Don, shock registering on his face briefly before his features went smooth, relaxed with relief upon seeing his eldest next to him.

"Donny, you came back," he whispered, reaching around Don, rubbing his hands up and down his son's body, planting kisses along his temple. Then Alan began to sob, not trusting that Don's appearance was permanent, knowing Thompson had to have a reason for releasing him to his family, believing it was a wicked ruse of hers to get them to let their guard down so that they would lose him forever.

"Please, Donny, please tell Daddy what she did." Alan rocked back and forth with his son. "Please, please tell Daddy where you went. I need to know."

Don started crying, too. He couldn't tell his daddy what he wanted to know, because he wasn't sure what they had done or where they had gone. All he knew was that Mommy had promised him that they would be together in less than a week and that there was nothing Daddy's lawyer could do about it. And he couldn't tell Daddy about the conversation he and Mommy had; it was their secret. Mommy had made him promise not to tell. He wouldn't have anyway, because he didn't want his daddy or Charlie to try to talk him out of making their lives easier.

Charlie left the living room to join his friends on the front porch, knowing his father would need to hold Don for a long while before he could see if his brother needed to eat and he put him to bed. Megan and Larry were standing with Colby and David, all having discreetly left the Eppes's house once Alan and Don had started crying, wanting to give them some time alone; and embarrassed, feeling like trespassers into the tender and private moment.

David began, "I talked to the cab driver. He said his dispatcher directed him to a parking garage; that a woman fitting Thompson's description put Don into the cab and told him where to go, and then she disappeared. That's all he could tell me. The garage is in the middle of the downtown area, so I don't think its location can give us any idea as to what she did with Don."

Charlie anxiously ran his hands through his hair, pacing in short steps back and forth on the porch. "Whatever it was, it was important enough for her to steal Buddy to blackmail him into doing what she wanted."

Megan leaned against the porch rail. "If that's true, then we have a real problem, because Don has Buddy, which means he did whatever she requested so she was able to give him back."

Charlie continued to pace, placing a finger to his lips. "But what could it have been? Why not just take off with him?"

Megan shook her head. "I don't know, Charlie. Maybe Thompson thinks if she took off with Don you would appeal the decision the judge made Monday and come after him if you won. Whatever it is, her actions indicate that she wants a legitimate claim to having Don live with her; that way, you couldn't do anything to take him away again."

Charlie's legs stopped moving as he stood in one spot, moving forward and back while he hugged himself. "It's all my fault. Don asked me if he rescued people and I told him yes, it was his job. Maybe he would have asked for my help in getting Buddy if I hadn't tried to convince him he was still the same person he used to be."

"Don't Charlie," David came forward. "You can't blame yourself or your father for any of this. I read what the end results were of Don living with that, that..._thing_ for two months. No matter how bad you feel," he looked around at his fellow team members, "no matter how bad any of us feel, we have to remember that she alone is responsible for all of this- not some or part, but _all_."

Colby asked perplexedly, "Could that stuffed toy really be that important to him? You know, that he'd risk anything to," he made little quotation signs, "_rescue him_?"

"Yes," Megan and Charlie said together. Charlie nodded his head towards Megan to proceed. "Colby, the reports from the institute indicate that the toy was Don's sole confidante during his stay with Thompson. Could you imagine being alone in a house for two months with no one to talk to but that woman? He needed somebody for company and that toy was his only option. So, yes, that reason alone is enough for Buddy to be that important to him. The reports also indicate that Buddy provides Don with some sort of protection- only they weren't sure what it was from. That's another reason he would want to get him back."

Charlie stopped moving. "I forgot about that. Megan, do you think Buddy protected Don from Thompson's physical abuse?"

Megan responded, "Yes, that's possible. She could have easily planted that idea in his mind by removing Buddy from Don's possession anytime she hit him."

Charlie smiled. "Megan, Don has been having nightmares in which Thompson was hitting him. Last night, he didn't have any, even though he didn't have Buddy with him. Do you think he might be learning to trust us to protect him over Buddy?"

"That's really possible, Charlie. But that means he went to rescue Buddy out of need for his presence as a friend. That can be worse for Don."

"How's that?" Charlie asked, rubbing a hand behind his neck.

"Because Don is very loyal and protective of his friends. If Buddy's only purpose was to help Don remain safe, then he would not need to keep him by his side once he knew Thompson could no longer hurt him, which his lack of nightmares last night might indicate. However, since he did risk his own safety to save Buddy, it means he is seeing the toy as a friend and will do what is necessary to provide him protection, maybe even at peril to his own life."

All five people stood around trying to understand how the toy could become such an important item in Don's life.

"Hmm," Larry said, gathering the attention of the others. "I think we are forgetting an important characteristic of Buddy, that is, his name."

Charlie's eyebrows lowered and he frowned. "I thought about that before, that maybe Don named the rabbit after me. If that's true," he spoke to Megan, "could that be the reason he is so protective of him- he's transferring the feelings he has for me onto Buddy?"

Megan rubbed her temple. "It's very possible. Alone in that house with Thompson, he might have searched his mind for some memory of another person he loved and who loved him too, finding a memory of you, a person who he also looked out for. Everything he remembered about _you_ and felt for _you_, Charlie, may have been summed up in that one term of endearment- Buddy, and he placed the safekeeping of this private treasure onto the body of that stuffed toy. This would have made it unbearable for Don when Thompson took the toy away, because she was not only taking away a friend, she was also taking away the last good memory and emotional tie he had to _you_, which were both wrapped up in that single word and the vestibule that carries it- _Buddy_."

Tears came to Charlie's eyes. "I hate her, I really do. She knows how to take everything between me and Don and use it to do wicked and evil things to him."

Larry put a comforting hand on his arm. "But everything between you and Don is not wicked, it is all good. And in the end, it will only cause good things to happen to him."

"But when will the end finally come?" Charlie asked sadly, wiping a hand across his eyes.

No one had an answer to his question.


	54. What Our Reactions Were

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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When Charlie reentered the house, he found Don asleep on his father's chest, Alan brushing his lips across his head and continuing to touch him wherever possible without disturbing his son. Slipping back out and locking the door behind him, Charlie asked Larry for a ride to retrieve his dad's car. Megan, David and Colby left, promising to keep in contact. It took almost two hours for Charlie to return home; he parked his car and entered the house, not noticing Megan sitting in her car across the street.

It was becoming worse for her. Not having a job to occupy her time, she found her thoughts randomly thinking about Don. She would watch a game on TV and wonder if he was watching, too. At dinner, she tried to imagine what he was eating and if he was improving his swallowing. When she slid into bed, she thought how nice it would be to hold him and offer him the comfort he sought from everyone else around him, cuddling under the blankets and in each other's arms.

This has got to stop, she told herself.

But of course, it didn't.

Tonight had been hard for her, seeing Don so scared, standing with that damn rabbit and sucking his thumb. She chastised herself again and again, but her other self argued that there was no woman on the face of the earth who wouldn't have wanted to pull him into their arms and soothe him. Megan had to leave immediately upon seeing him, knowing she wanted to push Charlie aside and have Don in her embrace, not his.

This is ridiculous, she kept saying to herself.

Ridiculous or not, she couldn't stop feeling the way she did. _What I need is to find a man and fool around with him, remind myself that Don is no longer one and is a child._ But anyone could see that no matter what his mental functioning, Don was definitely a man. And late at night, after she was asleep, her dreams were not about holding or soothing or comforting the child she had seen tonight, but about raw passion and touching and kissing and entwining with the man she knew was still hidden inside there.

Megan was patient. She believed she could wait for that man to emerge again, and this time, she would make a move.

Until then, Megan decided that with all the time she had on her hands, it would be a good idea for her to watch the house as often as she physically could- at least until the hearing. It was foolish to think possessively of Don, but she knew she was not going to let Thompson take him away again- not from Charlie or Alan or from me, she thought, wondering when the hell her emotions had crossed the line over into insanity.

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Alan and Don were no longer in the living room, so Charlie headed to the stairs. He stopped at the dining room table. In the middle of it, there sat four of the levers that he had attached to the doors of the house. It was apparent that his father was taking no further chances of Don escaping again. Charlie put the levers into the hall closet, glad to see that it still had its lever attached to its doorknob; his father must have only removed the ones from the exit doors.

Charlie went upstairs and saw the bathroom door was shut. When he entered, he observed his father was toweling Don off, a fresh set of clothes and a pair of special briefs sitting on the toilet lid.

Sighing, Charlie remembered the stain on Don's shirt, knowing what had happened. He asked his father if he wanted him to take over.

"No, that's alright, Charlie. I'm almost done." He proceeded to powder Don and then get him dressed for bed, ignoring the sad eyes that stared down at him.

"Don't wear these," Don whined, but Alan continued to put on the special briefs, and then pulled up his regular ones.

"You allowed her to feed you all that liquid again, didn't you Donny?" Alan asked quietly as he to put on Don's shirt.

Don looked away guiltily.

Alan set him on the toilet lid and began to gently brush his hair. "If you keep letting her do things like that to you, then you'll have to wear things like special briefs the rest of your life. Do you understand?"

Don stuck his thumb in his mouth, his eyes wet; Charlie lowered his, feeling bad. He had promised his brother that whenever he had an accident, he would be the one to make it right, keeping it just between the two of them. Now, Don was not only back in his special briefs after just one day, but he had also been put in the position of having their father take care of something that he had not wanted to share with anyone else except Charlie. For whatever reason, Don wanted that part of his care to fall to his brother alone, and Charlie felt a momentary glitch of guilt for having been away, even though the reasoning part of his mind knew someone had to pick up their car.

Somehow, Charlie thought, I keep failing you, Don.

When Alan finished with Don's hair, he helped him to his feet and led him past Charlie into the bedroom. Charlie stayed behind, pulling Don's jeans from the hamper and taking the chalk from their front pocket. He was glad to see that it had not been a victim this time, and took it into the other room, placing it beside their mother's picture on the dresser.

Alan attempted to wrap Don in the top sheet. But Don refused to lie down under it. "Please, Daddy," he said, lying on his side so he could face his father. When Alan climbed into bed, he was surprised that Don was clinging to him again, just like the first night when he had come home. He welcomed his son's need, pulling him close once again. Don was soon lost to an exhausted sleep.

Charlie slipped out of his jeans, shut off the light and slid into bed next to Don. He propped himself up on one elbow and waited for his eyes to get used to the dark. When they had, he looked at his father, who was so close to Don that they were almost one body. Charlie could see his father now appeared to be trembling. He reached across to him and gripped his hand, squeezing.

"Dad, it's okay. We have him back."

"No, Charlie, it's not okay. I don't think it ever will be." Alan pulled his hand from Charlie and began rubbing Don's back, needing to make contact with his eldest through as much touching as possible, just to make sure he was really there.

Charlie smiled. "Remember our motto- things will get better. I promise, they will."

Alan sighed deeply. "No they won't. I don't believe that anymore. Today was more proof of that. When she wants him again, she'll get him, only the next time she'll keep him forever."

Then Alan started sobbing, putting a fist to his mouth to stifle the sound because he did not want to wake Don.

Charlie slipped his arm through Don's, his hand resting on his father's side; his head hidden against Don's back, no longer smiling. He didn't know how to make his father stop hurting or how to rescue his brother from Thompson's influence. He was beginning to believe that his father was right- Thompson was playing a game they were going to lose, and he ground his teeth, pressing his eyes together so that he did not join his father and start to cry.

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Thursday morning, Charlie found himself brushed to the side as Alan took charge of Don's care. He bathed him, dressed him, and fed him. When they entered the solarium, Alan refused to let Don do any of his exercises. Instead, he turned on a cartoon and positioned himself in the center of the couch, pulling Don down beside him and putting his arms around him. Don looked over at Charlie, scared at the change in routine. Charlie nodded that it was okay, and watched as Don pulled his legs up onto the couch and settled against his father's chest, sucking his thumb and holding Buddy while he watched the TV, Alan rubbing his arm and occasionally setting a small kiss on his head.

Charlie stood watching them. After almost losing Don the day before, he needed to be with his family, too. He sat down on the recliner, moved into one position, then another, but could not get comfortable. He sat forward, his fingers loosely in his hair, looking between the TV and his family on the couch. Finally, he got up and sat next to his father, sitting against the back of the couch. A few minutes later, he bent his left leg, angling it under him; it was not long before the other one joined it and Charlie was awkwardly sitting on the couch like his brother, his legs gathered under him and leaning toward his father. Alan lowered his eyes to Charlie, who raised his to meet his father's, a flush of embarrassment on his face. Smiling, Alan lifted his left arm up over Charlie, saying, "Room for one more." Charlie felt silly for a moment- he was too old to want to rest against his father. However, the moment passed when he felt his father drop his arm around his waist, bringing his youngest son's body to his own. Charlie's head rested on Alan's chest, the top of his hair touching the tip of Don's head; while they watched the television, Charlie twisted a lock of hair while Don twisted Buddy's ear, both men now three years old and needing their father's arms around them.

Alan relaxed into the couch, both of his sons drawn up against him, the innocence of a cartoon playing before them on the tube.

Don and Charlie listened to their father's heartbeat, so steady and soft. That steadiness had been a part of their father that they had always relied upon, and it felt good to be experiencing it once again. Charlie thought sadly of how that heart had been broken so harshly- by their mother's death and by Don's disappearance- not once, but twice; yet it managed to survive. He wondered how erratic it would become in its pounding if- no, when- Thompson made her next move. For the time being, though, it was good to know he and Don could still depend on it.

About ten o'clock, the psychiatrist arrived to do the new evaluation of Don that Judge Salem had requested. Reluctantly, the Eppes men separated, missing the warmth of each other the moment they stood from the couch. When Dr. Fillmore was led to the solarium, he asked Alan and Charlie to leave him alone with Don, but neither man trusted having Don out of their line of vision, so Alan stood in the entryway to the living room, able to observe but not hear Don and Fillmore in the solarium, while Charlie stood directly on the other side of the door to the garage. By their positions, Charlie and Alan knew that the two exits from the solarium were covered.

When Dr. Fillmore finished talking with Don, Alan went to his son and resumed watching cartoons with him, laying him against his chest once again. Charlie answered a basic and life skills questionnaire for Dr. Fillmore, similar to the one Alan had answered when being interviewed for the first time by Jim. Afterwards, Charlie enquired as to what Dr. Fillmore's evaluation would say.

"Well, Professor Eppes, I would have to say that it only took a few minutes with your brother for me to determine he needs someone to watch over him. His responses are short and childish in nature, he does not comprehend but a small portion of what is happening in his life, he does not have the physical or mental skills to care for his needs, and he definitely has an attachment to that stuffed toy of his. I would think it was a family member from the way he talked about him."

Charlie smiled. "In an indirect way, Buddy is a family member." He was thinking about his conversation with Megan and was referring to Buddy as an effigy of himself.

Dr. Fillmore paused in the task of putting away his notes. "Pardon me?"

"Uh, nothing," Charlie said. "Do you know when you will have your report ready for our attorney?"

"Late tomorrow morning."

Charlie frowned. "That doesn't give him much time to file our papers."

"Well, do you want it done fast, or do you want it done quickly and correctly?" Dr. Fillmore picked up his briefcase and headed towards the front door. "I think you will be pleased with the evaluation. My summary will include a plea that someone be assigned to look after your brother." With that, he was gone.

Seeing is father ensconced on the couch with Don, Charlie was tempted to join them, but decided to make lunch instead. He was slightly perturbed when his father insisted on feeding Don again, though he was still not able to properly get the feeding glove on him. Charlie stood to the side, sighing silently in his head, his hands on his hips.

Alan glanced at Charlie and saw the disappointed look on his face. He released Don's hand and stepped away, smiling in apology. "I guess I've been trying to keep him all to myself, huh?"

"No," Charlie said, smiling in return as he moved past his father to feed Don, "you've been hogging him."

Alan laughed- a wonderful melody in Charlie's ears. After lunch, Don and Alan took their nap while Charlie retreated to the garage.

His chalkboards were covered in grids from the search that had been conducted the night before, all of his work on determining the cause of the brain injury thoughtlessly erased. Charlie allowed himself the luxury of losing himself in his numbers for the first time since Don had come home, setting up a new algorithm and entering new data, trusting his father would not let Don out of his presence for even a second. Charlie was finally called from his bubble by the sound of the phone ringing, over and over again, incessantly. Dropping his chalk onto the bottom of the nearest board, he ran out into the living room and snatched up the phone.

"Hello," he said breathlessly.

"Charlie, I'm so glad I finally reached you. This is Jim, over at the institute."

Looking at the lateness of the time, Charlie groaned. He had forgotten Don's aqua therapy. "I'm sorry, Jim. It's been chaotic over here. Believe it or not, Thompson took off with Don again."

Jim was silent on the phone for several pauses. "Did you find him?"

"Oh, yeah, he's home," Charlie replied. "He was reevaluated this morning by a new psychiatrist. We're hoping to be back in court on Monday and have new conservatorship papers."

"Then you planned to come today?" Jim asked.

"Well, yes, we just forgot." Charlie sat on the arm of the recliner. "Hey, this doesn't mean we lost our slot, does it? I'll pay you for today anyway, and next week we'll be there again- on time, I promise."

"I'm confused, Charlie." Jim hesitated.

"About what?" Charlie slid into the seat of the recliner. "We missed one session- I know you guys are expensive, but other people must have called off before."

"Oh, no, I mean, yes, they have. That's not what I'm confused about."

Charlie waited, not knowing what could be bothering the therapist.

Finally, Jim asked, "Charlie, you and your dad are still communicating, aren't you?"

"Of course we are- we live in the same house." Charlie started drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair, becoming impatient.

"Well, it's just, Alan- your dad- called the institute late last night. Said Don wouldn't be coming for a few weeks- that you guys were keeping him home. And Marie down in accounting says all of your bills were paid in full."

Charlie leaned forward. "What?"

"I said your father called the institute..."

Charlie shook his head so he could think clearly. "No, I'm sorry. I understood you the first time, only I didn't know he had called. It must be a misunderstanding."

"No, according to the receptionist, he was adamant that Don would not be returning and that we were not to contact the house. I'm sorry, but it sounds like your father no longer wants our services."

"Well, whether _he_ wants them or not, Don _does_." Charlie stood up, his hand tightening on the phone. "We will be back next week for all of his appointments. If my father calls again, it would be better if you just ignore him and listen to what I have to say."

Charlie could hear Jim breathing through the phone. It irritated him so much he wanted to throw the phone across the room. "Is there anything else, Jim?"

"Just one more thing; have either you or your father contacted any of those support groups I recommended."

"No, we haven't had time."

"Charlie, I think it would be a good idea if you did. It sounds like you two need to talk to someone about'-

"We don't need to talk to anyone," Charlie snapped into the phone, "we just need everyone to leave us alone." He slammed down the phone and stalked out of the room, looking for his father and Don.

Charlie could not find them in the dining room or kitchen. He realized it was long past the usual time they would wake from their nap, so it didn't make any sense that they were still upstairs, but he went looking for them there, knowing they would not have left the house.

When he reached the second floor and before he opened Don's bedroom door, Charlie forced himself to calm down. He knew his father was afraid of losing Don and yesterday's events had been hard on him.

_This won't do,_ he told himself, _I have to get control of myself or I'll end up fighting with Dad._

He placed his forehead against the wall and pressed his palms flat on its surface, breathing deeply, counting by square roots in his head while deciphering several equations at once, allowing the numbers to reach into his body and pull from it all of his anger and frustration. When he was ready, he opened the bedroom door, not the same child that had sought his father's comfort that morning but the man who had argued and won the right to mortgage his house, which was his first confrontation with his father. Charlie walked in as his father was pulling a new shirt over Don's head.

"What are you doing?" Charlie asked, trying to sound casual.

"He had an accident while we slept, so I took care of him." Alan gave Buddy to Don and patted his son on the bottom, pushing him toward the door. "We were just about to go downstairs and watch some more TV."

More television, Charlie thought, no exercises. It had been good for them to be together that morning, and they probably needed it again this afternoon. But the basic chewing, tongue, and gripping activities took very little time, so there was no reason to skip them again.

Charlie took Don's hand and led him from his father.

"Where are you two going?" Alan asked

"You and I need to talk, and Don doesn't need to hear us, so I'm putting him on the top stair." Charlie took Don to the stairs and helped him sit down. "I'll be able to see you from the bedroom, so don't even think about moving." Don leaned against the wall, frightened that he had done something wrong.

When Charlie entered the bedroom, he cracked the door enough so he could see Don but not enough for Don to hear them- hopefully.

Alan stood in the middle of the room, waiting for Charlie to begin.

"Dad," Charlie said slowly, speaking low because he did not want his voice to carry out to Don, "Jim just called. He told me you canceled all of Don's appointments at the institute."

Alan's face went pale. He sat on the bed, his head falling into his hands. "I called last night, when you left. I didn't want Don to have to leave the house again- I thought it would be best to keep him here."

Charlie sat down beside him, his arm across his back. "Dad, we've been over this before; you know we can't do that. Our goal is to get him back out into the world again- back to risking his life in gunfights and raids and rescuing people- not toy rabbits. What happened yesterday can't change our goal."

Alan lifted his head, tears dripping off the tip of his nose. "Don't you think I know that? I was desperate last night. I even took the levers off the doors so Donny couldn't get out again."

"I noticed that and I don't think that was necessarily a bad idea. I hate to say it, but right now, we can't trust him. Thompson may have plans for him to run away with her another day, one where it will be more convenient for her to get him out of town."

Alan tensed. "I hadn't thought of that."

Regretting having mentioned it, Charlie tried to soothe, "I don't think that is her ultimate plan, I'm just pointing out that we don't know what she is going to do and we can't stop living because of it."

"I know that too," Alan sniffed, "there are people all over the world who face worse threats than Thompson, yet they manage to make it through the day. But I couldn't make it- not last night, not when I thought about Don going back to the institute and the threats that seem to come whenever he leaves the house."

"I understand that feeling of panic that you felt. I've had my moments, too. However, now it's today and not yesterday, so we need to make our decisions using our brains not our emotions, and agree that Don has to keep his appointments."

Alan stood up. "Yes, Charlie, of course. I'm ashamed that I called the place and talked to them so harshly. They must think I've gone off the deep end."

Charlie joined his father, grinning, relieved that the problem had been solved amicably. "You haven't gone as deep as me. I just yelled at Jim for suggesting we see a support group."

"Oy," Alan smiled, paraphrasing, "the pupil doth overtake his teacher."


	55. Who Offered Their Help

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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Charlie and Alan took turns on the phone, each apologizing for the way they had talked to the personnel at the institute, gratified when Jim said he had been subjected to worse, promising the therapist that they would find a support group to help them deal with the anxiety that was building in them. Then they spent the rest of the afternoon watching television, first cartoons and then a ball game, still needing the time together and the enjoyment of an everyday activity. However, they followed Don's therapy schedule and encouraged him to complete his regular exercises. Charlie and Alan were dismayed to see that Don was not working hard at the tasks, half-heartedly finishing each one. Don alone knew they were now pointless, as he would be returning to his mommy soon and he knew she would not let him improve on the things his family was attempting to teach him.

After dinner, Charlie took his father aside one more time and reminded him that Don preferred that his brother clean him up after his accidents. Alan apologized. "I've felt the need to do everything I could for him today, but it was wrong for me to put my feelings first. It won't happen again." Then they entered the solarium, where Alan read Don a book, Charlie on his other side, still desirous of his family's closeness. Don finished his sucker and handed its holder to Alan, who noticed some of the sticky candy had gotten onto Buddy.

"Let me clean him for you, Donny."

Don nervously gave his friend to his father and watched as he took him from the room. Alan headed into the kitchen and began to run some water over the rabbit's ears. Charlie commenced reading another book to Don when the doorbell rang, startling both men.

Charlie left the solarium and went to the entryway, meeting his father, looking at each other puzzled and edgy, not expecting company.

"You stay with Don, Dad, and I'll answer it." Alan nodded. He went to Don and began to read again, telling his nervous son that he would bring him Buddy after the rabbit's ears had finished draining into the sink; he didn't want to tell Don the truth, that he had forgotten him when he hastily left the kitchen and that he would not leave Don alone to retrieve him.

Alan raised his eyes after each sentence that he read, wanting to see if trouble was waiting for them behind the front door.

Charlie stood on his tiptoes and put an eye to the peephole, then stood back down, his feet flat on the ground, clenching his fists. He groaned, looking up towards the ceiling.

"What's wrong?" his father called from the other room, fear in his voice.

"Nothing," Charlie called back, "I mean it's not that woman or her lawyer." The doorbell rang several more times. It was obvious their visitor was not going to leave.

Alan came into the entryway, standing sideways so he could see Don. "Well, who is it, then, and why aren't you answering the door?"

A voice boomed from the other side. "It's me, Billy Cooper- you remember, Don's ex-partner."

This time Alan groaned. "Why is _he_ here?" Alan was whispering, as it was clear that Cooper could hear their normal voices through the door.

"I don't know. Maybe he wants to see Don," Charlie whispered in return.

Both Eppes jumped when Billy spoke loudly to them again. "That's exactly why I'm here. Look, I know I'm prob'bly not your favorite person in the world, but I _am _one of Don's friends and I think I should be able to see 'im."

Alan was about to tell Billy he would never use the word favorite in a sentence that referred to him, even if it was a negative reference, but he was interrupted by his eldest son. "That's my friend?" Don asked, having appeared without them noticing.

Charlie and Alan sighed. They were stuck. If they refused Billy entrance, Don would wonder why they had turned away someone they had purposely told him was a friend of his; he might even think they were trying to keep all of his friends away, a belief that could easily erect a barrier of mistrust between him and them. This was something that Charlie and Alan could not have, as they believed Thompson was continually trying to break the bonds that they had developed with Don, and an action like that would give her more leverage to cut into them.

"This is going to be fun," Charlie lamented, opening the door to a grinning Billy.

"Took ya long enough," Billy smirked. He saw Don standing behind them and went to hug him. "Hey, man, how you doing?" He stood back a foot, his hands on Don's shoulders. "I gotta tell you, I've heard some horror stories about what happened to you." He turned Don's head back and forth, looking him over. "But they must have been exaggerations, cause you look fine to me." Then he slung his arm around Don's shoulders and led him to the living room couch before Alan or Charlie could stop him, sitting them down on it while he continued to talk.

"Man, you look good." Billy sniffed at Don. "Smell good, too. What is that, some kind of powder?"

Charlie rubbed the back of his head nervously. "What do we do? I mean, Don wants to see him, but I don't want Billy to screw up any of the progress he's made."

Alan rubbed his hands up and down the top of his jeans. "I don't see how it can hurt. You already told him he worked with Billy and what he did. Don's comprehension of things is still limited, so I don't think it'll do anything but confuse him some- which is nothing worse than the condition he is in now."

"I don't know, Dad. Won't Don be ashamed that Billy saw him this way?" Charlie chewed on a fingernail, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"No more than all the other people he knows who have seen him act like this. Don't forget, all three of his team members were here last night. We're beyond keeping his childish manners hidden from everyone he knows. Of course, that doesn't mean we have to parade him around, but I don't see any difference between Billy seeing him and when Megan, Colby, and David did."

Charlie nodded, unhappily giving up his argument. He did not want Billy there, but he could not think of a reason for ushering him out the door; at least one that would not make his brother unhappy. "I guess you're right. But I think we should stick close to them, so we know everything he tells Don. That way, we can intercede if Don becomes anxious and we can be prepared for any questions he has later."

They both grabbed a chair from the dining room, Alan placing his seat near the front of the couch while Charlie sat in the corner to the left of it, taking out one of the two boxes he had stacked there, and absentmindedly going through the top portion of its contents while he listened to Billy talk to Don.

"I'm stationed out of Texas, but they had me searching for this fuge that headed your way- just caught him a few hours ago. Had 'im hogtied and ready for the locals before he even realized I was behind him." Billy sat with one leg crossed over the other, his arms out to both sides and covering the back of the couch, oblivious to the incomprehension on Don's face. Billy smiled at his friend, feeling relief upon seeing him. Rumors had spread throughout the bureau that some woman had done a number on Don, and Billy had taken the first opportunity he had to check on his former partner. From the looks of him, he did not appear too bad. His frame was a little lean, he wasn't talking much, and he seemed skittish, but all in all, he was as Billy remembered him from his last visit to L.A.

Alan interrupted. "We need to talk, Agent Cooper. I think you're missing something here."

Billy grinned, his teeth flashing. "Only thing I'm missing is my ol' pal over here." He gave Don a gentle punch on the arm.

Don kept his eyes on Billy. He knew the man was supposed to be his friend, but he couldn't remember anything about him except what Charlie had told him: they used to be partners in something called Fugitive Recovery. Beyond that, Don had no inkling of what they felt for each other or what they had done as friends. The guy wasn't nice and quiet like Larry, who always paid attention when other people talked; Billy was loud and didn't listen to Daddy. Don wondered why he had chosen him for a friend.

Charlie fidgeted in his seat. He wanted Billy to leave. During Billy's last visit, Don had spent almost all of his time with his ex-partner, and it had made Charlie jealous of the man. Now, though, it was different; Charlie knew Don wanted to be with him, his brother, and he didn't want that to change because Don remembered how Billy had been very important to him at one time. Charlie was aware of his feelings of jealousy. He had acknowledged to himself during the prior incident with Don that he had always felt that way about his brother's friends. This had not changed, and with Billy visiting, Charlie felt the evil green-eyed monster rise again. It was stronger than ever as just the day before Charlie had thought he'd physically lost Don, and he was going to be damned if he was going to let this jerk take him away in the metaphorical sense, either.

Why did I open the door? Charlie thought angrily, but it was too late for that. To Charlie, Don looked immersed in every word Billy was saying, taking Don's interest in his brother far away, just like the last time he had visited. The items that Charlie took from the box clanked as he roughly tossed them one by one to the ground, ignoring what they were as he tried to figure out a tactful way to tell Billy to get the hell out.

Billy continued to talk about the times he and Don had spent in Fugitive Recovery together, Don trying to emulate his friend by sitting back against the couch with his legs crossed and his arm thrown loosely over the side. His eyes widened with the stories Billy was telling him; in time, he began to pull at his left ear anxiously, the stories becoming too scary for him.

Both Alan and Charlie saw the gesture, each rising quickly, Charlie sharply cutting Billy off mid-sentence. "I think that's enough. Don's getting tired and it's time for him to go to bed."

Billy cocked an eye at them. "It's not even eight o'clock. Me and Don are usually up half the night talking."

"Well, times change Billy, even if you don't," Alan informed him. "Don needs his rest. If you would just listen"-

But Billy ignored Alan, seeking reinforcement from Don. "Hey, since when do you let your dad make all your decisions?" He stood up and reached for Don, "Come on, I bet you haven't had any fun in a while- let's go find a bar to hang at."

And all at once, Billy could see what Alan had been trying to tell him, because Don cringed at his outstretched hand and curled up into the corner of the couch, afraid that the man before him was trying to take him away. Billy's jaw slowly dropped as Don stuck his thumb in his mouth, starting to shiver and cry, looking at Charlie and asking, "Buddy".

Alan blurted 'kitchen' to Charlie.

Charlie stood up quickly, the box falling out of his lap and its contents spilling across the floor as he ran to the kitchen and brought back the stuffed toy, pushing Billy aside as he handed Don the rabbit and started soothing him, furious they had thought the visit would not affect him so adversely.

"I, uh, I, I, uh," Billy stammered. "Didn't know, I, uh, he seemed so, so, normal."

"He _is_ normal," Charlie said with tears of anger in his eyes, "just different, that's all."

"I didn't mean it that way," Billy tried to apologize. He found the sight of his former partner too much to comprehend and turned away, making a fast retreat to the front door.

Billy was halfway across the porch when Alan called to him. He stopped, swallowing thickly, ashamed at his behavior. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and faced his friend's father, his eyes at his feet. "I'm sorry. I should have paid attention when you said I was missing something."

Alan closed the door behind him and stepped forward, standing directly in front of Billy.

"He does look the same, at least at first he does. Sometimes I can fool myself into believing nothing has happened to him, that he's the same son I had three months ago. That belief never lasts long. But once you saw the changes in him, no matter how shocking they were, there was no excuse for you to behave the way you did, storming out of my house like Don has the plague."

"I know," Billy placed his arm across his chest, rubbing the opposite shoulder. "I'm not good at, at- handling things, bad things that happen to people. That's why I came tonight- I wanted to prove that nothing bad had happened to Don, so I wouldn't have to think about it in the field. Now," Billy lowered his head, shaking it, "I'll prob'bly never stop thinkin' about it- about what I saw tonight."

"Don't expect any sympathy from me," Alan told him coldly, "I have to see him that way everyday. I don't know what kind of friend you were to Don before his accident, but I think I know what kind you are now."

Billy lifted his hand from his shoulder and formed a fist, running it across his teeth. His mouth felt dry and he found it difficult to speak. He lowered his hand and moved his tongue in his mouth, trying to form some saliva. No matter how hard he tried, he could not look Alan in the face.

Alan continued, "Don had three friends over last night, good friends- ones who didn't blink twice when they saw the way he was acting. It might have been because they knew what to expect, but I don't believe their reactions would have been any different if they hadn't known. That's just the type of people they are- loving and accepting of their friends, no matter what _bad things_ happen to them."

Billy turned his back to Alan, shaking, his arms hanging at his side. "I know what kind of person I am. I was never like Don. He always wanted to do what was right- it was his guiding principle. Me, I never seem to be able to do anything that is right." He stared off dreamily into the night, remembering his friend. "You know, it didn't matter if we were chasing a white collar criminal or a serial rapist; Don made every decision about their capture as if it was the most important one in his life. Funny, those decisions were some of the most important in the lives of the people we caught, but they didn't know it. They never knew how many times Don had to keep me from hurting them, not just a little bit, but really bad; could've gotten away with it too, only Don never thought about that, only thought about it not being _right_ to hurt another human being without provocation."

Tears sprang to Alan's eyes. He had known Don was a good agent, but his son had told him that his life in Fugitive Recovery had been some of the darkest hours of his life. Alan had assumed that meant he had done things he regretted doing- like hurting someone during an arrest and claiming the person struggled. It made Alan proud to hear his son was never like that, not even when the opportunity arose where he would not be punished for acting that way and when faced with some of the vilest criminals in the country. Alan was suddenly grateful to Billy, for having cleared up a shadowy part of Don's life, at least enough that he no longer had to question any of his son's actions while working for the F.B.I.

"Why," Billy asked quietly, "why would something like this happen to a person like Don? To me, that I'd understand, but not Don."

His voice and his heart warmed, Alan responded, "I don't know, Billy. We keep asking ourselves the same question, but we don't seem to find the answer."

"Yeah, well, all I can say is I'm sorry. I'm going to leave now, cause I just can't handle this situation. Like I said, I'm not like Don. He was even able to take care of his mom while she was dying, that's what I was told." Alan responded with a quiet yes. "Truth be told, I don't have enough maturity to deal with the ups and downs of a serious relationship- with a family, girlfriend or a friend like Don. That's why he ended up as a team leader and I'm still in Fugitive Recovery. One day he would've made director while I'd be drunk at some bar, not knowing what to do cause I was too old to chase escaped cons and too stupid to handle everyday people."

Alan stepped forward, standing next to Billy. "I'm sorry Don's condition is too hard to take. You were really important to him. You're actually the only person Don has indicated he wanted to see, so that should say a lot about your relationship with him. Maybe you did better being his friend than either you or I thought."

"Maybe," Billy said, "but right now I can't be here for him."

"If it's better for Don that you stay away, then maybe that's the best way for you to be his friend."

Billy thought about this. Don's father was giving him a way to feel good about his decision to leave and not offer any help to his friend's family. In a way, Alan's attempt at making Billy feel less guilty had the opposite effect: how could he ignore the needs of such good people? They could probably use some help in caring for Don, and Billy knew he had plenty of time that he could take off; but he also knew it wasn't in him to do something like that, to provide for another human being, no matter how close he might be to him. Torn apart by guilt, Billy thought about the person who had caused the damage to his friend and his family.

"How about the person who did this to Don?" Billy asked, "Which prison she in, cause I have some contacts that could"-

"No, Billy," Alan said firmly, "You said yourself that Don wouldn't approve of you doing something like that. Besides, she's not in prison- they dropped all the charges against her a while ago."

Alan moved back to sit in one of the chairs on the porch, asking Billy to sit beside him in another. For fifteen minutes, Alan gave him a shortened version of all the events that had occurred since Don had disappeared, including the fight they were having in court against the woman who had taken his son.

Billy gave a low whistle. "Crazy court systems- they release the bitch and then allow her to stop you from caring for the person she harmed. Makes real sense."

"I know," Alan said, "but it will be over by Monday- or Tuesday at the latest. Then we can have her arrested if she comes within a mile of Don."

Billy rubbed his mouth again. He knew the court systems could do a lot of screwy things, but this had to be the worse. And it sounded like Don's kidnapper was smart. He had met that kind of predator before, when searching for fugitives that had taken months to capture. They were always a step ahead and never made mistakes. Billy had found the only way to entrap them was by means that he knew his friend and former partner would not have approved of using, means that were more than a little illegal. This Dr. Thompson that Alan was talking about sounded like one of those predators. If so, he knew the Eppes were bound to be disappointed in court. At that point, they would need some help, and it was possible that Billy could provide the kind they might need. Billy pulled a pencil nub out of his front pocket, scavengered a small scrap of paper from his back and briefly wrote on it.

"I have to go tonight, Alan, I've already explained why. But if you ever need anything that's out of the ordinary, call me here." He handed the paper to Alan, who glanced at the number written on it before sticking it in his pocket. Billy leaned towards the other man, speaking deeply. "That phone number's serious, Alan. I got it from a former member of the CIA- it hooks you up to a secure line and to an untraceable cell phone. You can call me from anywhere in the world- even a pay phone- and it won't cost you a dime. Just type the number onto a key pad and you'll reach me. Keep it close- you just may need it."

Billy stood up along with Alan, both men walking to the car of the former. After Billy shook Alan's hand, he climbed inside and shut his door, then rolled down his window, telling Alan one more time, "I mean it, Alan. I can't do anything for Don now- that supportive crap is out of my league. But I might have other ways to help him in the future. Keep that in mind. And whatever you do, don't lose that phone number. It may be more important than you think."

Billy pulled away from the curb and headed down the road, leaving Alan behind to wonder at the underlying meaning of his words.

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It took Charlie ten minutes to calm Don, using every bit of soothing technique he had learned to be effective in the task. Don continued to be scared, thinking of the badman that had tried to take him outside the institute. This supposed friend of his was scarier; he had come into his home and tried to take him right in front of his daddy and Charlie.

"That's not my friend," he told Charlie, trying to catch his breath between his sobs. "Won't go with him."

"Shh, Don, it's okay." With Billy gone, Charlie's previous jealously had flown away and he could focus entirely on explaining to Don what had actually occurred. "He _is_ your friend, Don. Billy didn't mean anything when he asked you to go with him. You went with Larry to the institute last week, didn't you?"

"He's not Larry," Don whined, stating what he thought was obvious.

Charlie smiled. "Well, that's true. But you can't expect all of your friends to be like Larry- he's one of a kind."

"Don't care... Don't like Billy." Don closed his eyes and slowly fell into a shallow sleep. Charlie continued to rock him, wondering where their father was.When he was convinced that Don was settled, he slipped out from under him and started to clean up the mess he had made when he'd dashed to get Buddy and spilled the contents of the box he held. Hefting the box in front of the couch, Charlie began to refill it, putting in pictures, sports knick-knacks, pens, notebooks, small screwdrivers, pliers, and containers of various sizes. He noticed some items scattered to the side of the couch, and fell to his knees, crawling to the wall till he felt a prick on his knee, then sighing as he began to pick up one by one the tiny items that had spilled.

While Charlie was thus occupied, Don sluggishly opened his eyes, bolting up when he could not see his brother. He heard a noise at the end of the couch and scooted along it to look over the right arm, sitting on his knees. Charlie smiled up at him. "Be just a minute, I need to grab a couple more things." He had formed a small pile of white out, paper clips, and tacks in front of his knees; who the heck thought to pack a box of tacks, Charlie thought ruefully, gingerly picking up another one and adding it to the mound in front of him.

Don sat down on his bottom, relieved to have found Charlie; he looked around at the other things that had fallen on the floor, frowning at the mess that he decided was the fault of Billy. Only, Charlie had to clean it up, which wasn't fair. There were four wooden containers at various angles on the floor. Don wanted to help his brother, so he leaned over and tried to pick one up, but it was too heavy for him to slip his fingers under its bottom. He made another attempt with the next one, but found that it was also too hard for him to lift. The third container made him smile. It was big, and it had fallen so it was at a forty-five degree angle against the couch, leaving a space underneath that would allow him to put both hands around it without having to first maneuver it up to obtain a grip. Don wrapped both hands around it and pulled up, just making it to the cushion besides him before he dropped it on its side, his hands no longer able to remain closed.

He blinked in surprise as the lid fell off, a shiny object landing in his lap.

Don looked at the object. He was sure he knew what it was, but its name slipped away to the edges of his mind, just out of reach. Carefully, he put his left index finger into a circular holding attached to its bottom, lifting it to his face. Don sniffed it, scrunching his nose at the acrid smell. He turned it around, smiling because he was enjoying how the light seemed to reflect off it, enticing him. The object was heavy, smooth in spots, hard and cool; it felt right for him to be holding it. Don turned his new toy around, trying to look down into a hole bored into the front of its long cylinder snout, but his finger slipped and he dropped it back into his lap. Refusing to give up, he stuck his left thumb into the circle, feeling it fit snugly, and lifted it back to his face, turning it once again so he could look inside the hole, thinking that he knew something was supposed to come out of it, but unable to remember what, squeezing his thumb and finger against it in excitement as he tried to see what that something could be...

"Oh, Lord, Donny! Don't move!" Alan stood in the entry to the living room, leaning forward and reaching for his son, all color drained from his face and sweat dripping down from his temples, so horrified he could barely breathe.

Don froze, his thumb partially compressing the trigger of the gun, its barrel pointed right at the center of his face.

Hearing his father's cry, Charlie rose from beside the couch and then, when he saw what his brother was holding, bit his tongue to keep in a shout of panic. All three men remained still, all afraid to move, Don confused as to why he shouldn't but too scared to ask.

"Okay, easy Donny," Alan said quietly, moving at a snail's pace towards his son, not wanting to startle him, thankful he hadn't when he'd first cried out. Don whimpered, the digits on his left hand spasmodically moving from the stress of keeping them immobile. "Please don't be scared, Donny. Just don't move your fingers, okay? Can you do that for Daddy?"

Don gave a very short nod. Sweat began to wet his brow and hands, making it difficult to keep his grip on the gun. Alan saw this; putting his own safety aside, he took one long stride towards Don, standing in front of him and gently, slowly, pushed the gun so it no longer faced his son's face. Alan could hear Charlie breathing heavily next to the couch. Dropping with a gruff grunt to his knees, Alan covered Don's hands and held onto the gun, careful to keep it facing the opposite direction from himself and his sons, sliding a slick finger under the trigger so it couldn't be fired, and pulling the weapon off of Don's thumb and away from him. When Alan was finally sole possessor of the gun, he and Charlie both let out a sigh of relief while Don's tears began anew.

Charlie jumped over the arm of the couch, landing on his feet and falling to his knees on the cushions next to Don, grabbing him, digging his fingertips into his back, while Alan put the safety on the gun and shoved it across the floor; he then turned to put his arms protectively around his children, tears in all of their eyes. They stayed that way, folded upon each other, until Charlie and Alan heard Don softly snoring against his brother. Alan pulled away and groaned as he leaned on his elbows and made his way to his feet. Trembling, he picked up the gun and took it upstairs, locking it in the nightstand in his own bedroom. Afterward, he made his way downstairs to his sons.

Neither he nor Charlie was able to speak, stricken mute with the nearness of death having hovered above them. Alan picked up the spilled items from the floor, checking the remaining containers for other weapons; he found none. After he finished, he took the box and its companion out to the garage. When he returned, he and Charlie nodded to each other, each putting one of Don's arms over their shoulders and helping him upstairs, Buddy hanging by an ear in one of the loops of Charlie's jeans. Alan let Don lean against him while Charlie took care of his bathroom needs and got him dressed for bed, all three heading into the bedroom, lying Don carefully in the center of the bed.

Charlie and Alan collapsed around Don, leaving the light on, silently agreeing they needed to see as well as touch him, needed to see each other.

Needed to know they were all safe tonight.


	56. What Connected Us Together

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

Author's note: Okay, a little light before the impending dark. A reviewer asked me if Don might get hyper and I've tried my best to express that concept. If it's hokey, don't poke-me; but constructive criticism continues to be welcome.

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Melinda leaned towards Gordon, her hand gripping the arm of his chair. "Will this be a problem?" she whispered. She hadn't thought something like this would occur. After all, she had known the man for years- she just assumed he would trust her.

Gordon shuffled the papers in front of him. The attorney was more knowledgeable than his client and had prepared for this eventuality. Not knowing if anyone was within earshot of the conversation, he also kept his voice low.

"It would be a problem," Gordon replied loosely, "if I hadn't tied up Dr. Fillmore's schedule yesterday. Johnson won't file their papers until this afternoon at the earliest."

"Really?" Melinda was impressed with her attorney. "So you suspected this might happen?"

"Of course."

Gordon sat wearily in his seat. The entire situation was continuing to wear on him. He was glad his part in it would soon be over. Late Thursday night, Caleb had called him at home, wanting to know if Melinda was still threatening him. He had gritted his teeth and lied through them, telling her it was not safe for them to talk long; he had not told her which person in the word 'them' was unsafe . In her simplicity, Caleb still trusted him.

And it was breaking his heart, an organ he thought he had donated to criminal law years before.

Melinda interrupted his thoughts. "How did you do it?"

Gordon sighed. "I just scheduled several appointments for fictional patients, hired a few men to meet him and pretend to be in need of services. With each of them offering double his fees if their reports were provided last night, I knew Fillmore would focus on completing them, delaying the one he wrote for the Eppes." He grunted. "Actually surprises me that he finished so soon. His secretary says he always has his reports within a day of seeing a patient."

"The man must be a workaholic," Melinda said disapprovingly. "He should put his family first."

She quieted as a man entered the room, sitting in front of them.

Melinda smiled at the man she had known for over twenty years. He lived around the corner from her house, his daily drive into the county seat only ten minutes in length. As he began to talk, she purred- content . All those years of supporting his position were finally paying off.

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To their knowledge, Friday was uneventful to the Eppes. Johnson called them after lunch and informed them he would have their petition filed before four o'clock and that the court investigator would see them at eleven Monday morning, which would push their hearing date to Tuesday. Alan told his lawyer that Thompson had taken his son on Wednesday. Johnson apologized that there was no legal course of action that they could take, but that he was glad that Don had returned home. Alan asked his lawyer if there was anything Don and Thompson could have done in the short time they were gone to sway the hearing in her favor, but Johnson could think of nothing, though he promised to see if he could find out anything, again reassuring Alan that Charlie was first in line when the judge appointed a conservator. He and Alan made a date to meet the next day to go over the new evaluation and petition, as well as discuss what questions they could expect the court investigator to ask on Monday.

"I don't typically work on Saturday, Alan, but there is no other time for us to talk except Sunday, and I _never _work then." Alan thanked the lawyer, wondering if he was going to be billed overtime for being given the privilege of seeing him during the weekend.

Charlie joined Alan and Don during their nap. The fright the gun incident had caused them still hung in the air, like the smoke after a shot is actually fired. Leaning across a napping Don, Alan quietly told Charlie about his conversation with Billy, asking him why he thought the agent felt they would need to contact him in the future. Charlie just shrugged, telling his father he had no idea. Then both men had fallen asleep, remaining so beyond the sound of the alarm, emotionally drained.

Most of Friday evening was spent in the swimming pool, all three Eppes needing the relaxation that the warm water and quiet music afforded them. Alan first insisted that Charlie check the property. Halfway through his inspection, Alan came to the back door, telling him Megan had called and said she had been keeping guard across the street. Apparently, she had seen no nefarious sign of Thompson or her lawyer. Trusting her, Charlie and Alan took Don outside, helping him into the pool, their eyes still keenly watching for movement around them. About an hour into their foray in the pool, Alan felt they needed some fun and he left his sons, returning shortly from the garage. Charlie was floating on his back next to Don, his hand entwined in his brother's, when he felt something hit him on the nose and he sat up, grinning when he saw the large plastic ball floating in the middle.

"Hey, Don," he said.

Don pulled up; thanks to Charlie, he no longer wore any flotation devices, his fear of the water having subsided as his trust in his brother's presence had ebbed forward.

"Here," Charlie pushed the ball across the water, not wanting to hit Don in the head. Don batted it back, Alan splashing both his sons as he dropped into the pool, sending the ball spinning.

"Hey," Don said. He raced for the ball, but was stopped by Alan.

"Not too fast. We have to keep your head safe." Don nodded, accepting the rule. He pushed the ball with the flat of his palms, sending it across to Charlie, who sent it on to their father. They each found a comfortable spot against the inside of the pool and lazily batted the ball to each other, laughing and smiling, unaware of the storm clouds that were gathering in the sky behind them.

Too late, they felt the first drops of rain hit the pool. Charlie and Alan scrambled out, helping Don climb over the edge. Charlie covered the pool as his brother and father went into the house, just missing the start of the downpour.

Charlie entered the kitchen, shaking his long curls like a dog, splashing water around the kitchen as Don and Alan held up their hands for protection.

"Ah, man!" Charlie suddenly yelped. He ran outside, around the side of the pool. When he reentered the kitchen, he held their cassette player in his hands. Alan opened it and tried to retrieve the cassette, but its ribbon had backed up on itself and crinkled beyond repair, the old machine malfunctioning in the rain.

"We lost Mom's music," Charlie said quietly. Alan gave him a forgiving smile, "We'll find more of her later."

Don stood to the side, unaware of their loss.

Toweling first themselves and then Don, Charlie and Alan led the way upstairs, where they changed into bed clothes and slunk back down to the solarium, switching on an old black and white comedy.

Alan slipped into the kitchen and warmed some chocolate, measuring exactly one-half cup for Don and putting it in his sippy cup, while giving a more generous portion to himself and Charlie in two coffee mugs. He went to the hall closet and laid three throw blankets over his arm, then went back to the kitchen and balanced the cup and three mugs in his hands, heading to the solarium when he finished.

Don and Charlie gladly accepted their drinks. Embarrassed once again, Charlie allowed Alan to wrap him in one of the blankets, watching as Don readily and unashamedly welcomed his father to do the same for him. Alan switched off the lights, pulled a blanket over his shoulders and settled between them. They merrily watched the old-time antics of the comedy duo on the screen, their cares dissolving in the flowing warmth from a combination of chocolate, soft blankets, and body heat.

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Larry quietly stole outside the Eppes's home, sitting in the front passenger seat of their car. He thought the day was beautiful, a perfect Saturday for an outing. Only, he wasn't sure if there was to be one.

Charlie stood in front of his father, his arms crossed, Don in front of him whining, "Please, please, Daddy."

Alan had his hands on his hips. "This decision is not yours to make," he told Don.

Don sank into the dining room chair, stopping his quiet cries by placing his thumb in his mouth. Charlie placed a hand on his shoulder, stepping up to face his father. "He earned all fifty stars this week, and we promised he could go to the park. We can't go back on that now."

"Well, he should have thought about that when he took off on Wednesday." Alan refused to back down. It had been less than three full days since Don had snuck out of the house to meet Dr. Thompson, and he thought both of his sons were out of their minds to ask for permission to go to the park. "Charlie, I'm not taking any more risks with him. Don't you remember what happened at the institute- and I was right there. And two days ago, Don was out of our sight for less than ten minutes, right here in his own home. There is no way in hell I'm letting him go to a public place as open and unguarded as a park."

Charlie understood his father's concern. When Don had first asked him about the park that morning, Charlie had told him the same things his father was saying now. Only, Charlie found it impossible to resist Don's pleading, easily falling victim to his puppy-dog eyes and quivering lips. Instead of dropping the subject, Charlie had taken the time to think about whether it was a wise decision. It was true- Don had taken off with Thompson on Wednesday. However, Charlie believed she had done so in order to accomplish something that would affect the upcoming hearing, otherwise, why send Don back home? That being the case, there was little or no chance the woman would try to nab Don again. But Charlie wasn't one hundred per cent positive, so he swayed back to an answer of _no_ because even a minute chance was too big of one to risk losing Don again.

Then Larry had stopped by, having given the Eppes a couple days to themselves in the correct belief they needed time alone, and Charlie saw his friend's visit as an opportunity to swing the pendulum in favor of going to the park. Surely, with both him and Larry attentive to Don, there was no way Thompson could kidnap him again? Still, Charlie was leery of leaving the house. The hearing was in just a few short days, and it made sense for them to wait until he had the legal papers that would keep Thompson away. He had tried to tell Don that they could wait, but Don had sulked, crying and begging as best as he could that no, only today would do. Charlie had frowned at the severe reaction because the prior week Don had been content to stay in the back yard, briefly wondering if Thompson actually did have plans to meet with his brother.

Charlie's final decision was made when he had cupped his brother's face and directed him to look into his eyes; he had then asked Don if he wanted to go to the park to meet someone, or for any other purpose than to play baseball. Don had sobbed _no_ so many times that Charlie was convinced his brother just wanted his reward and had no ulterior motive for wanting to go.

This had led Charlie to the argument he was currently having with his father.

"Dad, he promised me he wouldn't go anywhere; he'll stay with me and Larry."

Alan looked at Don, his heart wanting to melt at the misery he saw on his face. "Donny, go into the living room and sit on the couch. Your brother and I need to talk." Don pouted his way out of the room, giving one last plea with his eyes towards his brother.

Once Don was gone, Alan said, "Charlie, you said so yourself, we can't trust Don. This might be another trick of Thompson's to get him out of the house."

"But she had him already, Dad. Why didn't she just keep him if that was her plan?" Charlie crossed his arms again, unrelenting.

"I don't know," Alan snapped, sinking into a chair. "I don't understand anything she does. I just know I can't lose him again, Charlie. I just can't."

"Dad, you have to trust me"-

"I trusted you the other day."

"That's not fair."

"Neither is life."

Charlie drummed his fingers on the back of the chair, his other hand running through his curls, not knowing what to say to convince his father. He glanced into the living room; one look at Don slumped on the couch and he knew he couldn't give up.

"What if we called you every hour- let you know he was safe?" Charlie tried to come up with something that would satisfy his father.

"In the meantime, I would worry." Alan sat hunched forward, his hands clasped tightly in front of him.

"Okay, how about every thirty minutes?" Charlie felt as if he was making headway. "And you can talk to Larry before we leave, make sure he understands that we have to stay with Don at all times."

Alan's head fell to rest on his hands. He hated this, but Don did not seem to understand why he couldn't receive his reward; at least, Alan hoped and prayed that was the reason Don seemed so upset. Alan lifted his head and looked at Charlie. His youngest son was standing up to him, refusing to back away from the argument. Alan was proud of him for showing so much strength, even if he did think it was a mistake to let Don go to the park. Horrible images of Percy Jackson assailed his vision and Alan had to rub away a tick at the corner of his mouth.

He wondered if it would always be like this- him being afraid to let his adult son out of the house. How do other people handle these kinds of situations? Other parents had special children, too- ones that were blind, or deaf, or in wheelchairs, others who were children in their minds all of their lives. At least he had some hope that Don would return to being a man- but how did those other parents cope with seeing their often innocent adult children thrust into a world that was anything but innocent? Alan thought about Jim's suggestion that he and Charlie seek a support group; for the first time, he was really beginning to understand why one would be of benefit to them.

Still, he didn't believe many parents had someone like Dr. Thompson focused on their child and nobody else. Then he remembered Jackson again and realized there probably were parents out there who could relate to what they were going through, other parents who worried about people who were determined to prey on their children.

At least Don has Charlie to protect him, Alan sighed, that one thought changing his mind about letting Don go to the park. Don did have Charlie to protect him, and Alan trusted his youngest son to take care of his brother. The other day, neither one of them had been with Don when he took off, nor had Charlie been present when Jackson had tried to steal Don; but Alan was positive if Charlie had been present when Don had tried to leave or during Jackson's attempt, he would have protected his brother and taken care of the problem- taken care of him.

Charlie could tell from experience when his father changed his mind and he snuck a thumbs-up to Don behind a chair. Alan noticed the move and rolled his eyes. He stood up, telling Charlie, "Fine, you can go. But not unless he wears a helmet for his head."

"We can stop by the toy store and buy him one," Charlie said quickly.

"And you need to take his medicine with you"-

"Already packed."

"And some"- Alan went to a drawer in the buffet, searching through it.

Charlie continued his list, "Extra clothes, his briefs, baby powder, baby wipes, rash medicine, ground food in a cooler, his feeding utensils, holding glove, a first aid kit, a blanket to sit on, my fully-charged cell phone"-

"And this," Alan said, holding up the item he was looking for.

Charlie fell silent, staring at it. He shook his head, "No, Dad, I can't put that on him. It would be too embarrassing for him to be seen in public with it."

"Oh, and his carrying around Buddy won't be." Alan crossed his arms, knowing he would be the one not backing down from this particular demand. "If you're taking Don out in public, I want to be assured that he can't get away from you. So, either he wears it or you stay home- there will be no negotiations."

Charlie knew this was one lost cause. He could only hope Don would forgive him later on.

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"Slow down, Don," Charlie panted, having a hard time keeping up with his brother, whose strides were much longer than his own.

Don loved the freedom of the toy store. There were so many brightly colored items and wonderful things to see. He darted to an army soldier, staring at the gun he held, longer than the one he'd had in his hand two days before. Before Charlie could stop him, Don dashed to some blocks, trying to pick them up and put them in place, dropping the one he could grab when he saw cars careening down the aisle. He ran after one and stopped when it did, smiling down at the little boy that was controlling it, grinning when the boy offered him the box in his hands. Don fumbled with it, the boy seeing he was was uncertain how to manipulate the controls, so he took it back from Don and held it out to him, showing Don how to move the steering wheel and push the lever that moved the car forward and back. Don smiled, laughing with the boy when he crashed into a wall or backed into a display.

Charlie stood next to Don, his right arm jerking every time Don moved his left one. Buddy was stuck in a loop of Charlie's jeans; after Don had first taken off, he had insisted his brother give him the rabbit, afraid it would get lost. Larry came up behind them, tapping his mouth as he observed Charlie's discomfiture.

"Maybe we should have stayed in the car after all," he apologized.

"Yeah," Charlie breathed out, "Ya think?"

He groaned when Don took off again, the child strap that tied him to his brother going taut as Don quickly followed the boy to a television display, a video game on it. Charlie jogged to keep up, glad when Don stopped to play the game. Larry sauntered up behind them a few minutes later.

"I think we are wasting valuable time that would be better spent looking for a well-fitting helmet for Don," he stated.

Charlie glared at him. "Well, maybe I could have been looking for that well-fitting helmet if you hadn't insisted that Don be allowed to come in with me."

"Hmm," Larry murmured, "I don't believe I ever insist on the actions of others. I may attempt to persuade, but would never insist my will upon another."

Charlie ran a frustrated hand through his hair, only to be yanked off his feet as Don and the boy left the video game, heading to an aisle with sports equipment. At least we're finally heading to the right section, Charlie thought, holding on to his arm as he was tugged forward by the strap. While Don bounced a basketball with the flat of his palm, Charlie searched the shelves for adult helmets. Finding one that seemed the right size, he turned to Larry, who was standing by his side, looking at the same display.

"Do you think you could take that one down for me?" He pointed towards a solid red helmet. Larry stepped on the bottom shelf and reached for it, bringing it down and handing it to Charlie.

With the helmet in hand, Charlie spoke sternly to his brother. "Don, do you still want to go to the park?" Don stopped bouncing the ball, nodding his head at Charlie. "Then let me see if this helmet fits your head." Don stood still as Charlie placed the bike helmet on his head, careful not to push down on his temples. Charlie made sure it fit correctly, and when satisfied, took it off his brother's head. "Okay, we're done here. If you want to go, we have to leave now."

Don told his friend bye and walked towards the front of the store, Charlie trailing behind him with Larry. When they stood in the checkout lane, an older woman passed by and stared at them, her eyes following the strap from Don to Charlie and back again, noting the helmet in Charlie's hands and the rabbit swinging from his jeans. Charlie was just about to tell the old bitty to mind her own business when she addressed Don.

"It is so nice of you to take care of your little brother. My grandson is special, too."

Don smiled, puffing up his chest. Charlie withered, wondering how many other people had thought that it was _he_ who was attached to his older and taller brother, and not the other way around. But as they moved in the line and Don continued to stand proud, Charlie found it easy to allow him his moment to shine. It had been a long time since Don had a reason to feel proud for watching out for his little brother.


	57. How We Played

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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At the park, Charlie reattached the child tether and warned Don that if he ran off, they would have to go home. He was already a little worn from being dragged throughout the toy store and didn't want a reoccurrence at the park. Charlie allowed Don to carry Buddy, this time pulling the toy's ear through the loop of Don's jeans. He closed the lid on his trunk, Larry lugging the laptop carrying case with all of Don's necessities, the blanket lying over it, while Charlie carried Don's new helmet, his soft bat, ball and Velcro-encased glove, as well as two gloves for him and Larry. A friendly voice behind them stopped them in their tracks.

"Professor Eppes, Professor Fleinhardt!"

They turned behind them, watching as a small, new car slid into the space next to theirs. Jimmy Nicholson came out of the driver's side, followed closely by his grandfather, Bob.

Charlie and Larry smiled, pleasantly surprised. Charlie dropped the equipment in his hands as the two men approached him, giving each one a quick hug.

Jimmy explained, "We were driving by and thought it was you. Grandpa Bob insisted we stop, see how you were doing."

Bob gently spoke to Don, asking, "Do you remember me, sweetie?"

Don moved behind Charlie. He remembered how badly he had been punished the last time he had talked to Bob. _Badman will get me_ he thought, trying to hide behind his smaller brother, putting his arms around Charlie's waist and pressing his face into his back.

Bob's smile fell as he realized Don was frightened by him. "Well, it's good to see you're able to play baseball with your brother," he said quietly.

Wanting to talk to Bob, Charlie asked Larry to walk Don into the park, but no further than he could see them both. Larry agreed, dropping the carrying case and allowing Charlie to attach him to Don. Then, they put on Don's helmet and Larry picked up the rest of the sports equipment, leading Don into the park, stopping with him at a set of swings and offering to push Don. He helped Don wrap his arms around the chains holding the seat and he began to push gently, entertaining Don by explaining to him about fairies and sprites that supposedly lived in the trees.

With Don gone, Bob openly talked to Charlie. "I'm glad to see for myself he's okay. That friend of yours, Agent Reeves, called me Wednesday, told me to keep an eye on my neighbor- did a recognizance of Thompson's house. Didn't see nothing. Reeves called me back- said it was alright, your brother had returned. Too late for me- she'd tweaked my curiosity. Kept a watch on that house last two days- no activity, least not till Thursday night, lights on in the house again. And yesterday, funny-looking fella with big, ol' glasses comes by, gives my neighbor a lift, both of them dressed to the nines, like they're going to a funeral."

Charlie thought about what Bob was telling him. It sounded like Thompson and her lawyer had been up to something, but he had no idea what. "Thanks for telling me, Bob."

Charlie turned to Jimmy, seeing that the young man was leaning against his car, obviously wanting to show it off. Charlie commented on how nice it was.

Jimmy said bashfully, "It's one of three things I spent that award money on."

"Well, I'm glad you decided to spend it," Charlie told him. He pointed towards Don, smiling. "As you can see over there, I got my money's worth."

Jimmy beamed. He was glad to see that his professor was with his brother again. "I didn't spend all of it. Me and grandpa talked- I put away twenty thousand just in case, you know, if I want to settle down."

"He's got himself a girlfriend, that he does," Bob said, "pretty one, too. You know her- name's Cheryl Jacobson- worked at campaign headquarters helping to find your brother."

Jimmy's face flushed red. "Grandpa Bob, you don't have to tell everyone my affairs."

"Hmph! Rate you're going, tis a far cry from one affair whether alone several." Jimmy mumbled something about not rushing things, nervously excusing himself, saying he needed to check his engine. He popped the hood on his car and pretended to fool with it, not wanting to talk with his former professor about his love life.

Bob cracked a grin. "Gotta keep at him- if I ever plan to see great-grandchildren before I die."

"You really need to get together with my dad," Charlie laughed, "and have a good old-fashioned griping session."

"He has a yearning for a grandchild?" Bob asked.

"_Grandchildren_ is more like it," Charlie stated. He looked over at Jimmy. His former student had moved to sit in the front seat of his car, playing with the stereo controls, unable to hear him and Bob talk. "You might want to watch out for Jimmy," Charlie warned Bob, "Cheryl never showed any interest in him before he received all that award money. I hate to say it, but a pretty girl like that might be after him for the money."

Bob shook his head. "After Jimmy for his little bit o' money? That's smart" Bob gave a chuckle. "Turns out, that gal's loaded." Charlie's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Seriously," Bob said, "her father's an investment broker who got in on those computer machines back in the stone age- math professor or not, you can't count the number of zeroes behind her name."

"I never knew," Charlie said slowly, "but why the sudden interest in Jimmy?"

"Easy," Bob explained, "She was impressed when Jimmy donated one hundred thirty thousand award dollars to some missing children's place downtown L.A. Went with him myself to turn over the cashier's check. It's a small organization- was just about to fold when Jimmy saved the day." Charlie stared across to Jimmy, still in his car, amazed at the young man's act of charity.

"By the way," Bob added, "some guy runs the place said to give you a 'hello'- name of Malone, if I recall correctly."

Charlie wasn't sure when he had felt his spirits soar so high. It seemed like decades ago that he had talked to Malone about how to find his brother. The man had been kind to Charlie, even though the person Charlie was looking for was a grown man, not a child.

Charlie placed a hand at his neck. "I'm afraid I never did thank Malone for his advice on finding Don."

Bob snorted. "Thanks? Oh, Malone knows he got plenty of thanks from you. Don't think we didn't tell him whose money that really was. And Cheryl, she got her daddy to give 'em another million- just like that, the old man wrote out a check." Bob shook his head, awed by the ability of any human being to be able to give that amount of money away without it really affecting their bank account, like they'd dropped a dime on the floor and didn't bother to pick it up. "Malone told us he never thought spending a little time with you would get him such a high rate of return."

"Thank you," Charlie said sincerely, "for tying Jimmy and Cheryl's generosity to Don. If Malone can help others with their donations, then my family will know at least one good thing came out of his kidnapping."

Bob glanced over to his grandson. "Well, actually two things. I am positive Jimmy and Cheryl are heading to the altar soon. It would never have happened without them working together in your search."

"Okay," Charlie grinned, "two good things."

"Well, maybe four." Charlie raised an eyebrow. "Jimmy bought us a couple motorcycles- those are the two other things he spent his money on. Not ones like my old-fashioned beauty- modern Harleys with the full works, even have a couple hitches on the back and these small trailers we can drag behind us for all our belongings, side seats for the ladies of course." Bob preened about. "We're going to join a group of my war buddies in a week. They have bikes, too; when we're together, we're our own motorcycle gang, bad to the bone." Charlie stifled a laugh, picturing Bob in full Snoopy gear leading a bunch of similarly-attired older men as his posse. "Gonna go camp out in the wilds- been planning this trip a long time. Didn't expect I'd have bragging rights with my bike and I can't wait for the old warhorses to see it."

Charlie let Bob describe the new bikes a few minutes more, than he picked up the carrying case and blanket that had been left behind, bid goodbye to the old man, knocking on Jimmy's car window and waving, and he trotted forward to meet Larry and Don.

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Charlie was the leader, searching for a spot that was well-shaded, knowing it was not good for Don to be out in the sun because of his diuretics. When they found a spot in the midst of several oak trees, he laid down his carrying case and guiltily detached the child strap from Larry and Don, thinking that his father hadn't thought about the fact that it would have to be removed in order for them to play the game. Charlie chose to shrug the guilt off, having faith in his and Larry's abilities to keep his brother safe. He put Don's glove on his hand. Once Charlie and Larry also had on their gloves, the proceeded to play catch, laughing away the morning as they chased the ball, none of them able to keep a grip on it, breaking occasionally to take of advantage of the bathroom in a nearby pavilion.

Despite their mirth, when people walked by, Charlie and Larry were watchful, judging whether each person was a threat. And keeping true to his word, Charlie called his father every thirty minutes, giving his brother time to rest while he assured Alan that Don was safe. When they finally sat down to eat lunch, they spread out their blanket to sit upon, grateful that nobody suspicious had come their way. Charlie helped Don eat, conscious of Larry observing him, feeling a little like a specimen. When Don finished, it was his turn to watch as Larry and Charlie downed a sandwich and sucked in two bottles of sports drinks each.

After eating, Charlie insisted Don should take a nap, feeling the ground under the blanket to make sure there were no stones or sharp objects underneath, taking off Don's helmet and helping his brother to lie down, pulling Buddy's ear from his jeans and giving the toy to Don for him to hold. Charlie lay on his side next to Don, propped up on an elbow and singing softly, while Larry stood guard nearby, his arms crossed as if he were a bouncer at a bar.

When Don was asleep, Charlie stood up, calling his father. "How did your meeting go?"

"Not too bad. It sounds like the court investigator is going to ask Don basic questions, like how do we treat him, does he get enough to eat, what he does all day." Alan suddenly changed his voice tone, saying sarcastically, "Basically, are we starving and hitting him or locking him away in a closet."

Hearing his father's frustration, Charlie tried to soothe. "Dad, you know this is just a routine requirement to get conservatorship. It's good that they check to see if a placement is suitable. We don't abuse Don, but didn't Johnson say there are plenty of people out there that do harm the persons in their care?"

Alan harrumphed through the phone. "According to Johnson, it really doesn't matter what Don says because he has brain trauma and might not be thinking clearly; the court investigator is just going to look him over for signs of abuse, see that he has food and a place to sleep- nothing else is really important. Judge Salem will most likely decide where to put Don based on one thing only, and that's the fact that you have first rights to claim him."

"If the interview is just a formality, why are you so upset about it?"

Alan snapped at Charlie. "I don't care about the interview so much as I care about having the court order a person into my house to see if I'm actually providing food and a bed for my son. Do you know how insulting that is?"

"Well, considering I'm the one they're actually investigating, yes, I do think that I have some idea."

Charlie waited, his father silent on the other end. At last, Alan's voice sounded again, softer."I'm sorry, you don't deserve my anger."

"No, but there's not much that has happened to me lately- to us, that we have deserved, so I think I can handle a small dose of your anger."

"Having that good of a day, huh?" Alan's voice carried a laugh in its tone.

"Yes, we are. I wish you could join us."

"I could, but I think I'm going to trust my wonderful son to take care of his brother, and take a nap," Alan said, adding, "but only until his next call- in exactly thirty minutes, okay?"

"Promise Dad. By then, Don should be done with his."

Charlie clicked the phone off, standing next to Larry, watching out for strangers, maintaining his father's faith in him and taking care of his brother.

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Don awoke early, his hands covering his lap and curled in a ball, ashamed of what had he had done in public. Both Larry and Charlie could guess what had happened. Charlie whispered in Don's ear that it was alright, to stay still. Then he and Larry made a search of their surroundings, waited until no one was anywhere near them, Larry jogging to the bathroom at the pavilion with Buddy protectively in his arms and checking for people, Charlie helping Don to his feet and across to the bathroom when Larry indicated it was clear.

Once inside, Charlie pulled a piece of folded paper from the side of the bag, along with some tape. He went to the door of the bathroom, where Larry stood outside so as to try to prevent people from entering. Charlie taped the piece of paper to the door in an attempt to make Larry' job easier; his professional-looking sign had been printed off his computer right before they'd left home that morning, the words 'out of order' boldly in black, Charlie grinning when Larry stated his foresight was really quite impressive.

Back inside, Charlie stripped Don in the open space that they were now afforded, having thought ahead that a stall was not enough space to care for his brother in case he had an accident, aware that it would be a humiliating thing to clean and dress his brother in front of perfect strangers, even if Don himself was not conscious of his nakedness.

Within the two weeks that he had been caring for Don's personal needs, Charlie had fallen into an efficient routine. His first action was to always check for the condition of the chalk in Don's front jeans pocket. Happily, it was again okay, though Charlie decided he would replace it the next morning while Don slept, as it was breaking off small pieces because of the wear and tear that was a side effect of its unusual carrying place. He removed his shoes and socks, noting whether any liquid had escaped down Don's legs and into them, setting the shoes on the sink when he was positive they had not been affected, placing the socks in a baggie and pulling out a fresh pair, observant that Don had been sweating into the previous ones and it would be better that he have some dry ones put on.

Next, he quickly took off Don's jeans and boxers, rinsing them in the sink and wringing them out, folding them neatly and placing them each into their own heavy-duty plastic bag, zipping them closed and putting them in the front compartment of his carrying case, closing them inside. He then checked Don's shirt, and when no dampness was found on its hem or elsewhere, he lifted it up and bunched it under Don's arms so he could clean him from the waist down without getting the shirt wet, having Don stand with his legs apart while he took a large amount of baby wipes and thoroughly cleaned him, working his wary from Don's feet upwards, wanting to make sure he was complete in his job.

After throwing away the wipes, he applied some powder, wanting Don to keep the fresh scent that he had been carrying with him ever since he had come home, and then carefully worked in the rash medicine, not conscious of the fact that he was handling and touching his brother's most intimate body parts. When done, Charlie put on Don a fresh pair of special briefs, then his regular ones, pulled up his jeans and fastened them, tugged on two new socks and his shoes, tied them, and laid his t-shirt flat again, all in a little less than twenty minutes. As a last measure, he cleaned his own hands and took out two more baby wipes, cleaning Don's hands and face, giving his hair a couple swipes of a small hairbrush stuck in the side panel of his carrying case, slipping the three pieces of chalk back into his front pocket.

"All in all," Larry said when they emerged, fastening Buddy back onto Don's jeans, Charlie removing his sign and sticking it back in his bag, "a very impressive makeover."

Charlie smiled proudly, putting the bike helmet back on Don's head.

The three men went back to their picnic area, Charlie folding the blanket and laying it over the sides of his case once again, leaving it on the ground so they could play for a while more, calling his father first before they began.

Charlie lifted up Don's light bat, deciding it would be nice if Don could hit a few balls. He reached into one of the back side pockets of his carrying case, pulling out a glove that looked similar to the one Don used for eating. It was one of the new assistive devices that had come in the mail the prior week, and he was pleased they would finally get to try it out. It looked and fit like a batting glove, only it also had a long, wide strip of Velcro-covered material that jutted out from behind the tips of the fingers that could be folded over and fastened, keeping the hand closed and in place, allowing the wearer to grip anything that was elongated or shaped like a pole.

Charlie put the glove on Don's right hand, placed the bat in his palm and closed his hand around it, sealing it shut by bending the strap over and fastening its Velcro covering to some located at the base of the glove. Don moved his hand around, careful not to hit Charlie or anyone else, eyes wide that the bat did not drop from his hand. Charlie told him to stop moving and then he stood behind Don, lifting his brother's left hand to encircle the right so that it could help guide the bat's movement.

"Okay," Charlie backed away. "I'm going to pitch to you-see if you can hit a couple balls."

Don smiled broadly, his body remembering the proper batter's stance on its own, and he lifted the bat to his shoulder. It took twenty-five minutes for Don to hit his first ball. While Larry went to retrieve it, Charlie called his father and turned towards his friend, laughing when he came puffing up and handed Charlie the ball. "You sound like I felt this morning, being dragged around that toy store by Don."

"Ah, Charles," Larry breathed deeply, "is my current placement a mischievous sort of revenge upon my suggestion that Don would enjoy the store? Which he did, I might add."

"No, Larry, I just assumed you did not know how to pitch."

"Wrong assumption, my dear friend, but my lack of adequate air intake indicates to me that my body does require more exercise, so I will banish myself to the outfield in order to obtain it." He left Charlie, walking back to his prior position.

Charlie continued to pitch, Don hitting every other ball, Larry grunting as he went after each one. Some time into their game, three ten-year-old boys were passing on the periphery of their small sanctity and decided to watch the game. When Don hit a fly ball way past Larry and seeing the older man had not caught the ball, one of the boys shouted to Don, "Run!" caught up in the grownups' game.

Doing as he was told, Don dropped the bat by his side and ran, dragging it beside him, heading out from the trees into the main area of the park.

"Wait!" Charlie shouted, running after him, throwing an accusatory look at the boys as he passed them.

As they entered the open field of green, Charlie realized Don was really racing, speeding ahead of him with longer legs and a head start, seemingly oblivious to all the dangers that might be lurking around him, apparently not going to stop. Charlie knew if he wanted to catch Don, he was going to have to run harder.

Pumping his legs, Charlie bent his arms and leaned forward slightly, trying to propel himself after his brother. The sun was lowering in the east and as they sped through the park, Charlie was suddenly frightened, not knowing if he could catch up, wanting to will his body forward ahead of Don, not able to keep his brother's pace, not able to move faster, not able to lessen the distance between them, the world around them fading away as it was suddenly just him and Don, and he was chasing him, running after him, reaching for him, a brilliant fog surrounding them, wisps of people and trees and benches and bushes and shadows and dogs and lampposts and the ground under his feet, no substance to it, and he was falling further and further behind, his hand stretched forward trying to grab Don's shirt, his arm, his back, unable to reach, unable to get a hold, calling Don's name-

unable to catch Don in his brother's race to escape.

Suddenly, abruptly, Don stopped, turning in his tracks, laughing and smiling at his brother, his arms dangling at his sides, the tip of the bat resting on the ground. Charlie halted, almost running into Don. He bent over, catching his breath, trying to calm the beating of his heart. When Charlie was finally able to raise his head, he looked around and was shocked to see that he and Don had not gone but a few hundred yards from the clearing when it had seemed like they had been running forever.

Grabbing Don's hand, Charlie said sternly, "Don't ever run from me again, do you hear me?"

Don nodded, letting his brother lead him back to where Larry stood worriedly with the baseball in his hand. "I think we better head home," Charlie told his friend. Larry observed the lines of worry crawling across Charlie's face and conceded it would be best they left. Charlie realized that he needed to feed something to Don first, so Larry offered to take the sports equipment, including the helmet they had removed from Don, to the car, stating he would return when he had done so, thinking it might be best if one of them was unburdened and free to chase Don if he somehow managed to free himself from the child's strap on their way out of the park.

While he fed Don, Charlie thought about what had just occurred, wondering what would have happened if Don had not stopped, trying to ignore the gut feeling he had that if Don chose to run away again and did not stop on his own, Charlie would not be able to keep him from leaving, would not be able to catch him, would have to let him go.

It was a disheartening thought, one that Charlie chose to suppress as Don finished eating. Afterward, Charlie gladly re-tethered himself to his brother, making sure the strap was on properly and could not become unattached; then they headed slowly towards the exit to the park, Larry returning to walk with them before they had left their spot.

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There were two of them waiting, lying on either side of the path that led to the parking lot, causing disdainful expressions to appear on the faces of every parent that headed to a car with a child in hand. Few parents succeeded in passing them without paying one of them tribute, and Charlie found he was stuck in the same situation.

One look at Don's face and Charlie knew he'd have to buy him a balloon.

There was an older gentleman to their far right and farther along the park's paved pathway, nearer the parking lot; but a younger man had positioned his cart closer to the pathway and was the first one people would meet when exiting the park. So, Charlie chose to buy a bright red balloon from him, the man's placement allowing Charlie to give Don the small gift immediately.

Without thinking, however, Charlie paid for the balloon and took it from the vendor, handing it to Don while he waited for his change, the man not facing Charlie but talking to a friend who was leaning against the tree that the cart was sitting under. Of course, Don could not grip the string and it flew away, Larry jumping twice to try and grasp the trailing string.

Seeing Don's glum face, Charlie immediately apologized. "It was my fault, Don, not yours. Don't worry; I'll buy you another one."

Larry was leaning against the cart, waiting while Charlie shifted the carrying case he had slung over his shoulder in order to free his way to his back pocket again and pulled out his wallet, searching for exact change; that's when the scientist overheard the young man snicker quietly to his friend, "Stupid retard can't even hold a balloon."

Charlie finally decided to use a larger bill; he pulled it out of his wallet and was handing it to the man when Larry interceded, interrupting the transaction, walking between Charlie and the young man, snatching the money from Charlie's hand as he passed through and continuing down the path to the next vendor. Charlie stared after him several moments, confused by his friend's behavior. Trusting there was a reason for it, he headed after Larry, leading Don beside him.

"Do you have any association whatsoever with that young man over there?" Larry asked the second vendor, pointed back down the path.

The older man in front of him clicked his dentures, pushing them in and out quickly with his tongue. "No, definitely not. He rude to ya?"

Charlie and Don arrived, listening as Larry said, "No, not to me. He was insensitive to a friend of mine." Charlie frowned, understanding the younger vendor must have made a comment about Don. He was grateful Larry had kept him from supporting the guy's business.

Don had no idea to whom Larry was referring, or in what regards. He was fascinated by the older vendor's ability to click his teeth in and out of his mouth. Don grimaced, showing his own teeth, and tried to push them out with his tongue in a failed imitation of the vendor.

Larry looked at the balloons rising above their heads. He wanted to get his point across to the young man that had spoken so callously about Don. There were few children left in the park, limiting the vendors' opportunities to sell their supplies of balloons for that day.

"What payment would you require to purchase these?" Larry asked, indicating the twenty-two balloons bobbing lazily in the evening breeze.

The old man pushed his teeth out, thought about it, told him a hundred would do it. Larry went to hand the man Charlie's money, planning to add some of his own, when Don suddenly said, "No, just one," remembering his mommy had said his family was limited in the amount of money they had and confused as to whether a hundred dollars was a lot to Charlie.

Larry stopped, stared at Don, and sensed he did not want his brother to spend so much on him. He gave Charlie back his money and pulled out his own wallet, handing the vendor the required cash, informing Don, "I do believe that some of these are mine and Charlie's, maybe one for Buddy, if that's agreeable to you."

Don smiled, satisfied that he was not costing Charlie any money and that Larry had not bought all of the balloons for just him alone.

Charlie helped Larry tie four balloons to each of Don's wrists, one around Buddy's paw, and then they tied the remainder of them to each other, Larry quietly observing the soul-lifting attributes of the brilliant colors of red and yellow and bright blue. While he was busy attaching the last balloon onto Larry's left wrist, Charlie puzzled over Don's refusal to let him pay for more than one. His brother had accepted his purchasing the helmet earlier in the day, yet he had refused Charlie's offer this evening of more than one treat. It almost seemed as if Don thought he had limited funds and he wondered where he would get that idea. Thinking about the mortgage he had applied for and knowing he would meet later that week to go over the final papers, Charlie wondered if Don had at any time overheard him discussing the loan with his father or Larry. He made a mental note to put extra effort into keeping it a secret from Don; he felt there was no reason for his brother to feel guilty about money being spent on him, as Charlie knew the mortgage would supply them plenty.

When they finished, Larry insisted they reenter the park, leading them in a miniature parade past the other vendor, playfully batting his balloons back and forth with Don, mischievously winking at the young man, who glared at him and started pushing his cart, heading home.

They settled on a bench, Don in the middle, Larry whispering a modified Jules Verne tale about traveling in a balloon around the world and describing in detail the sights that would be seen, Don looking skyward at a red one in particular, the lightly bobbing object just above his head, imagining he could see everything Larry told him, slowly sinking in his seat and lowering his eyes, finally resting his head on his friend's shoulder, his balloons jerking up and down as his arms moved restlessly while he slept.

Charlie called his father to tell him they were on their way home, pushing several balloons forcefully out of his face, watching as the one attached to Buddy broke free and floated away.

He hung up his phone, staring at the blue circle as it escaped towards the sky.

"That's me, Larry," he said quietly.

Larry looked up, following his friend's eyes along the path that the balloon had taken, listening thoughtfully to Charlie.

"That's me without Don, like he once described me, my own little bubble, far away from everyone and everything in the world but numbers." Unconsciously, he slipped his hand into Don's. "Whenever in my life I have started to fly away, other people have tugged at me, tried to keep me near reality; only, I always managed to escape them, slipping through their fingers and their lives. It has never been like that with Don. He's been able to catch a hold of me anytime he's needed to, pull me down, tie me to him, so no matter what, I could never get away; at least, not when he didn't want me to."

Charlie turned to Larry. "I'm afraid that woman is going to take Don away from me, Larry, and then I don't know what I'll do. He keeps me grounded. If he leaves me, I think I'll be like that balloon, and float away, disappear from the world. And without Don in my life, I wouldn't care. I really need him, Larry."

Larry held Don's other hand, sadness welling in him that he could not help his friends.

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Charlie and Larry managed to help Don to the car, untying the balloons and pushing them into the back seat of the car, Larry guiding Charlie as he backed his car out of its parking spot, dropping off his friend and driving Don home. There, he went to call his father for help with Don and his items, but smiled amusedly when he saw Alan come storming out of the house and open the back door of the car, slipping through the balloons and putting an arm under Don; he had him in the house and up the front stairs before Don had cracked open an eye, Charlie gathering the laptop carrying case and all twenty balloons, taking them into the house, observing his father had sounded a lot more comfortable on the phone about having allowed Don to be gone at the park.

His father's anxiety about the whole day was even more evident to Charlie after he walked upstairs, carrying the balloons and leaving them floating in the hall. He took care of his own needs and placed Don's wet clothes in the hamper; when he entered Don's bedroom, his father was nervously checking his brother over top to bottom, Don already in his boxers and tee and leaning against Alan with his head over his left shoulder, Alan running his hands gently over his temple and feeling along his limbs, lifting his shirt and moving his boxes, picking up his legs and twisting them partway, glaring at Charlie when he found a tiny scratch on the back of Don's right calf.

Charlie actually opened his mouth to defend himself, the words ready to spill from between his teeth, when reason knocked him in the head and he realized the only words his father would accept from his lips were "I'm sorry", Charlie handing them over to Alan on a silver-plated tongue, silently sighing when his father chastised him for not being more careful.

Alan carefully laid Don in the center of bed and fell in beside him, needing the warmth of his son's body and the sleep. He had tried to nap earlier in the day, but he had been too anxious to stay in bed, spending the day prowling through the house and fighting off all the bad things that kept popping in his head- bad things that he was afraid would happen to Don. Every time Charlie had been scheduled to call, Alan had sat near the phone five minutes early, counting down the seconds until it rang. He had tried to sound unworried on the phone; he had faith that Charlie was taking good care of Don, and he did not want his youngest to think it had faltered. But Alan could not rid himself of the anxiety that had taken root in him from the moment Johnson had left, when his mind was no longer occupied with issues concerning the court investigator or the hearing and was free to roam, finding itself running again and again into dark corners in which menaces sat on their haunches, waiting to strike. His only reprieve had been during those times that Charlie called, when his youngest son's voice had assured him once again that his faith was justified and Don was safely with him.

Before getting into bed, Charlie went out into the hall and caught all of the balloons, tugging them into the bedroom. His father sat up partway, watching as Charlie released them to fly about the room. Alan sank back beside Don, assuming Charlie had purchased them for Don and had brought them into the bedroom because he wanted his brother to wake to see them in the morning.

Charlie did want Don to wake to them in the morning, but he wanted them in the room for himself that night. When Charlie slipped into bed beside Don, he put an arm under his head and watched the balloons settle against the ceiling, moonlight from the window shimmering off each orb. He thought about what he told Larry, that he was his own bubble. Here, in his home, with his father and brother beside him, Charlie enjoyed watching the balloons, thinking to himself that tonight all of them were him, pent up balls of energy stretched to their limits and wanting to break free, kept from flying away into the dark of night by the safe surroundings of his family and home-

by the strong presence of his brother beside him.


	58. What Could Have Happened?

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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Sunday had been a nice day, the Eppes men spending the majority of it relaxing, Alan and Charlie quietly talking to Don about how happy they were to have him home and that they hoped he felt the same. Don had looked at them sadly, telling them he loved them, Charlie responding by bouncing a few balloons through the air towards him, telling Don he loved him, too, and that it was a good thing- a happy thing.

_Smile._

Don had done just that Sunday morning; waking up to what he called a rainbow on his ceiling, lying on his back with his hands behind his head and watching the varied-colored spheres float about the room, with his younger brother doing the same beside him, their father already downstairs making breakfast. Charlie had told him to make a wish and Don had silently said one, listening as his brother told him that there was always treasure hidden under a rainbow, and then Don had lifted up his head, twisting it and looking around to find it, till Charlie told Don that he didn't have to search for it, that he was the treasure in their house, and he better never forget it.

_Smile._

By early evening the balloons were no longer on the ceiling, just hanging a few feet off the floor. Charlie had taken them out of the bedroom to allow them to freely roam about the house, moving to and fro, here and there, as a door opened and another one closed, someone walking nearby stirring the air and their placement in the house. And then Charlie had started playing with some of them in the solarium, dissatisfied that his brother said he loved his family but did not seem happy about his statement, wanting to cheer him, wondering why he was so sad, what was bothering him, but unable to get an answer.

_Smile, because I love you._

Before they went to bed, Charlie had gathered the balloons, now sunk to the floor, and placed them into the garage, Don sadly saying goodbye to the rainbow, a momentary stab of fear piercing Charlie's heart as he feared the treasure hidden under it had been taken, too. Only, Don was still there.

_Smile._

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Alan stood leaning against the kitchen counter, right eye twitching, his hands running nervously up and down the front of his jeans. Charlie chose to pace; his hands were pressed prayer-like in front of his lips and were bobbing back and forth off of them.

Now it was Monday and anxiety had filled their home once again, brought to them in the form of a short, thin man with small spectacles at the end of his nose and a black suit that was so stiff he looked like he was wearing cardboard. The court investigator, Mr. Conrad Dean, had arrived promptly at eleven, entering the Eppes' home and ignoring their greeting, coolly walking upstairs, the sound of doors opening and shutting as he entered and exited each room. Then down to the first floor he bounded, brusquely passing Charlie and Alan without a word, into the kitchen, where the Eppes could hear cabinets being searched as well as the refrigerator. Finally, the investigator made a curt review of the other rooms in the house, walking briskly from one to another, taking notes on a clipboard, not even looking at Don, who sat frightened on the couch in the solarium.

His examination of the house over, Mr. Dean asked for a room where he could talk privately to Don; when Alan stated his son would be most comfortable in the solarium, Dean brushed him and Charlie into the kitchen, telling them to remain there until they were called. His demeanor changed, however, when he started to address Don. He sat in the recliner, facing him, his posture and facial expression softening, talking so quietly Don had to lean forward to hear him and forcing him to give the investigator his full attention in the process.

Don had been anxious all morning, not wanting to meet another stranger. His mommy had told him it would be alright, that it didn't matter what he said, as long as he didn't bring up her secrets. Other than that, he could tell the man the truth, that he loved his father and brother and that they took good care of him. Knowing that he did not have much to remember helped stay Don's nerves somewhat, but when the court investigator had arrived, the man's presence caused Don to realize that this would be the last day he was spending with his family.

And it made him sad and nervous, not wanting to leave them and unsure exactly how Mommy would treat him when he went home to live with her again.

Don had known the day was not long in coming. It was the reason he had cried so badly on Saturday; he had felt he'd been working hard and deserved a day to play baseball at the park with Charlie. His brother and daddy had said no at first, justified in their unwillingness to trust him to stick by Charlie and not run away again. But they had made that initial decision because they thought there would be plenty more days to go to the park, and Don had known otherwise. So it was the knowledge that his time with Charlie was limited that had propelled Don to use every skill he knew at pleading and begging and looking miserable to convince his brother they should go; Don had known that once Charlie said yes, it would not take his brother too much time to get their daddy to agree.

Charlie was just smart like that.

Mr. Dean asked Don two more questions and then told him he had done a fine job, peering over his glasses and deciding that the man before him looked in good health and did not show any signs of abuse.

The court investigator headed towards the front door, calling to Alan and Charlie. He wrote for several minutes before addressing the two nervous men. Standing casually, completely opposite from when he'd first appeared, Dean told them, "You two have done a splendid job on this house. I am used to bars being placed on the bathroom walls and up the stairs, but the levers on the doorknobs are especially nice."

Charlie smiled, relaxing along with his father. "I've bought a lot of assistive devices like those. We've been slowly utilizing them one by one."

"Yes, yes" Dean replied, "I noticed the array of tools you had laid out in the solarium. The holding glove is very useful. My aunt's had one for several years- can grip a pool cue with it. Wouldn't think it, but she actually won a few trophies wearing one."

"Well, of course," Alan piped in, "Don won't have to wear one forever. He does daily exercises to help him improve his grip. The doctors expect a near or complete recovery."

"Yes," Dean stated, "I've heard that before." At the Eppes' crestfallen faces, he apologized. "I'm not saying that it won't happen in this case, but too many others have told me the same thing and they don't bother with any of the new assistive devices. Too late they realize how effective they can be in helping their loved one be independent and making their own lives easier in the process. I'm glad that you haven't fallen into the trap of believing Don will become well overnight."

"Oh, we know Don's rehabilitation is going to take a while," Charlie assured him, "like you said, though, we want to help him be as independent as possible in the meantime. He really likes to be able to do all that he can on his own."

Dean nodded, "I can see that you are trying to motivate him to do exactly that. I'm supposing that is the purpose of the charts."

Charlie and Alan were surprised the man had noticed them and guessed what they were for. Alan said, "You are correct. He receives a star for every task he completes and then a reward at the end of the day. Don did so well last week that Charlie even took him to the park on Saturday."

Dean put his clipboard into a satchel, "Don mentioned that to me. Fresh air is good for the body and the soul- I'm glad you're not keeping him locked inside."

"No," Charlie frowned, "We would never lock Don away."

Dean grabbed his satchel and went to the door, telling them, "Well, if the judge says Don will need a conservator, my report will not adversely affect the court assigning him to you." He stopped in the process of exiting through the door. "Of course, I'm not supposed to tell you that, so please keep it strictly between me and you."

Charlie and Alan said it was no problem. They watched from the door as the little man climbed into a huge Cadillac, barely able to see over the front dash, and drove off.

Alan eagerly called Johnson, telling him that the interview had gone well. His lawyer chuckled, reassuring his client that of course it had. Now they just needed to make their brief appearance in court in order for Charlie to be named conservator.

However, Alan wanted to be cautious, remembering their prior visit to the court. "What if Thompson contests again? Maybe she found out something about Charlie."

"Like what, Alan? You said so yourself that he has an impeccable past, present, and will have an impeccable future. That woman can complain all she wants- Charlie has first right to claim Don and the law will stand behind him."

"But what if"-

"Alan," Johnson sighed, "if she stops Charlie's petition, we'll fight it this time by appealing the judge's ruling. It means you will all have to appear in a courtroom complete with a jury, but I think it would be a much better route than applying again- which we won't have to do, let me add, because we _are _going to win."

"Well, as for appearing tomorrow, Don is not going to; he's staying home. I don't want to put him through another court proceeding."

"I'm fine with that, Alan, and Salem will be, too. He already talked to Don at the first hearing and the court investigator will have asked any further questions that he needed answered."

"Good, then I'll leave him home for sure. Back to Thompson, do you have any idea what reason she'll give for contesting this time?" Alan's chipper mood was beginning to wan as he reminded himself the court investigator had not given them custody of Don and that they still had the final hearing to overcome.

"I don't know, Alan, her lawyer hasn't filed any papers as of yet. It appears they're going to wait till the last minute."

"Then how will you know what we're up against?"

"I'll have my runner get me a copy before we appear in front of Judge Salem. I assure you, I won't need much time to plan a strategy- give me ten minutes with the papers and I'll know exactly what to do." Johnson spoke unabashedly. "I'm just that good."

"Well, if you say so…" Alan said doubtfully.

"Alan, you need to trust your lawyer and you need to trust the legal system. We're both set up to work for you. Now, I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early."

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Charlie stood behind Alan, waiting his turn to hug his brother goodbye. When his father stepped aside, Charlie slipped his arms around Don and held him, his head next to Don's, taking a deep breath so he could remember the baby powder scent the rest of the day, a new and pleasantly fragrant reminder of his brother. When he released Don, Charlie could see the tears in his brother's eyes. He wiped them gently away.

"We'll be back soon, Don. I promise."

Don had no doubts about that. He was sad that he wouldn't be there for his family's return.

"I love you," he told Charlie.

"Love you, too," Charlie smiled reassuringly.

Alan was waiting for them to finish saying goodbye. Charlie put his hands in his pockets and lowered his head. It seemed silly they were taking so long- he and his father would only be gone a few hours. Looking out the front window, Alan commented at the weather outside, returning to stand besides his sons.

"Figures it would rain," he sighed.

There was a torrential downpour surrounding their home, making it almost impossible to see outside. Don looked out the window past Charlie's shoulder. He licked his lips, cringing when a bolt of lightning appeared outside. Charlie quickly stood up and pulled the curtains shut, but he could not keep the storm's presence away. The wind was too strong, shaking the window panes and making them hum longingly, the thunder continuing to rebound off the clouds and batter against the house, the lightning charging the air in the room with electricity.

"We better get going," Alan said. He placed a loving hand on Don's cheek, giving him a final kiss on the temple. He turned to Charlie. "Let's head through the garage- the side door is closer to the car."

They headed through the solarium to the connecting door to the garage, Larry and Don trailing. "Now, you have my cell phone number and Charlie's, too?" Alan asked Larry for the twentieth time.

"Yes," Larry replied, "and the number to the court house and your attorney's cell, too."

Twenty dying balloons still lay on the floor of the garage, Charlie not having the time to discard them. He and his father made their way past them and opened the door nearest the driveway and their car, pulling their jacket lapels up around their faces. "I'll go first," Alan shouted above the howling wind, "and unlock the doors. At least one of us won't have to be soaked."

He ran out to the car before Charlie could protest, and fumbled with his keys, cold water drenching him through to his soul.

Charlie looked one last time at his brother, mouthing _smile_. Then he ran towards the car, jumping over several puddles and landing in one, six balloons blowing out of the garage after him. When he jumped into the passenger seat next to his father, Charlie wiped the condensation from the windshield in front of him and watched as the balloons were caught up in a harsh gust of air, his eyes following them as they were carried away and disappeared, far from the world below and never to be seen again.

He sat back, wondering if it was an omen.

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Charlie and Alan found themselves sitting in the last pew in court, looking about for Dr. Thompson and her lawyer. It disheartened them to see her appear, well ahead of time, flashing them a sharp smile as she headed to the front row.

"Where's Johnson?" Charlie asked nervously. His father had explained the attorney had to wait until that morning to see the papers Thompson had filed with the court. Fairfield had indeed waited until the last moment to put them in.

"He's out in the hall someplace, waiting for his runner." Alan tried to pull at his slacks, but he found they immoveable, so wet that they stuck to his legs. He gave up when the bailiff called the court into session and Judge Salem appeared with a fresh bottle of antacids in his hand.

They sat through four cases before theirs was called. Alan was nervous now, not seeing his attorney anywhere. But the bailiff called them again, and they had to move down to the front of the court room, Dr. Thompson and Gordon Fairfield waiting for them at the opposite table to their own, an eerie reenactment of the week before, sans Don and Johnson, Charlie sitting where his father had previously sat.

"Where the hell is Johnson?" Salem asked the Eppes. He accepted a set of papers from his assistant.

Alan was about to say he didn't know when the door of the court opened and he turned to see Johnson quickly coming down the middle aisle. The attorney dropped to the seat beside Charlie, looking worn and drawn. For the first time since they had met him, both Charlie and Alan could guess the man's true age had to be somewhere in the early fifties.

They did not think this could be good news.

The bailiff swore the members of each party in, and then the judge flipped through his papers, wanting to re-familiarize himself with the case.

"What took you so long?" Alan whispered to his attorney, leaning behind Charlie.

"I was contacting the court in Nevada City." Johnson's hair was disheveled, as if he had been running his hands through it repeatedly.

Alan and Charlie frowned.

Something was definitely wrong.

"What's in Nevada City?" Alan said quietly, his eyes on the judge, not wanting to interrupt him when he decided to start the proceedings.

"It's the county seat for all of Nevada County," Johnson replied as he sat back in his chair, talking out of the side of his mouth. He could not look his client in the eyes.

"So, what about it?" Charlie was turned towards Johnson. His stomach was beginning to feel sour.

Johnson nervously flipped through a set of papers in front of him. He glanced over at Fairfield, who sat confidently at the table next to theirs, staring ahead. Johnson's eyes fell to the papers in front of him, knowing that despite his prior boast ten minutes would not be enough time for him to solve the fiasco that awaited Alan and Charlie- there would never be enough time, because what was about to occur was already written in stone and was just waiting to happen.

"Harvey!" Alan barked.

The attorney startled in his seat. He finally looked at Alan, his eyes apologetic. "I'm sorry, Alan. I would have never expected…would never have thought in a million years…" He turned away. "I've never dealt with people like this before, Alan"-

He was interrupted by Judge Salem. Charlie and Alan straightened up, their attention on the man before them.

Judge Salem slowly started. "This proceeding concerns the petition for permanent papers of conservatorship of Don Adam Eppes, by his brother, Professor Charles Eppes." Salem's eyes slid over to Charlie. "There have been two previous hearings concerning this matter. I sat at both of them, granting temporary papers of conservatorship to Alan Eppes at the first one, and then reversing my ruling at the second, as Alan Eppes was deemed a poor choice to make decisions concerning the monetary and physical welfare of Don Eppes, here forward in these proceedings to be referred to as simply Don."

Alan gripped the edges of the table when he heard judge's condemning words.

Harvey Johnson was barely listening to what Salem was saying. He was thinking hard about his options and whether or not there was anything he could do to stop the final ruling.

"Now, I requested that the attorney representing both Alan Eppes, and the new petitioner, Charles Eppes, provide me with a new evaluation from a court-approved physician, one who would provide an unbiased opinion as to whether Don is in need of a conservator." He shuffled through some papers, pulling out one and placing it in front of him. "According to Dr. M. Fillmore, Don is currently suffering from several mentally and physically incapacitating conditions, the combination of which prohibits him from caring for his own personal needs. So, in that, this court recognizes the need of Don Eppes to be provided a conservator."

Harvey Johnson suddenly stood up. "Excuse me, your honor," he said, louder than he had intended, "at this time we would like to request another hearing date, as I have just acquired a copy of the papers that were filed by Gordon Fairfield on behalf of his client, Dr. Melinda Thompson. We would like the new date in order to have adequate time to review these papers and prepare a response to the information that they contain."

Judge Salem's entire four-hundred plus body seemed to shift forward across the bench, as if bearing down on the attorney. "I think I warned you, Johnson," he heaved at him, "that you better do your job. Apparently you didn't, or at least I highly doubt your clients will think you did."

Alan's left leg began to shake up and down; he gripped Charlie's arm, panic setting in. After placing a hand over his father's, Charlie froze in his seat, willing his mind to stay in the room and not drift away on the billowing numbers that floated above his thoughts and invited him to escape.

"But your honor," Johnson fairly begged, "Fairfield filed his papers too late for me to"-

"No excuses," Salem barked. "Besides, what difference does it make when they were filed? You know the law and what I'll have to rule. What's the point of giving you one more minute, whether alone several days or weeks? My decision will not change."

Johnson knew the judge spoke the truth. The time to change the course of the day's events had ended the previous Friday. He sat down, keeping his face forward, unable to answer when Charlie bent his head towards him and asked what the judge was talking about, knowing his client would have his answer shortly.

Salem pulled out a separate set of papers. "Now, as regards who should be named conservator. Don was interviewed at his home by a court investigator, Mr. Conrad Dean, at the bequest of this court. The first thing we should address is Don's absence in the courtroom today." Alan was about to speak, but Johnson saw him from the corner of his eye and finally turned to look at his client, waving him silent. Salem continued, "Mr. Dean states that he asked the proposed conservatee if he would like to attend this hearing and received a negative response. With Don not in attendance today and no one to represent him, it falls upon this court to take into consideration the facts it has before it in order to make the best decision concerning his placement, and see to it that it is carried through whether he agrees with the ruling of the court or not, as his current judgment is clearly impaired."

While Salem flipped another page and perused it, Charlie whispered to Johnson, "We represent Don. Doesn't he know that?"

"Not legally," Johnson quietly told him, "I represent you and Alan. In a sense, the law is representing Don."

"Should we have brought him with us, then?" Charlie hoped they hadn't made a mistake in leaving Don at home.

"No, Charlie," Johnson sighed, "it doesn't make a difference if Don's here or not. The judge is going to rule according to who is first on the list of people able to request conservatorship- not according to your brother's preference."

Before Charlie could respond, Salem started talking again. "Mr. Dean states in his report that Don told him that his current placement was satisfactory. Dean further wrote in his summary that the home is set up to accommodate his needs, speaking highly of Alan and Charles Eppes."

Alan and Charlie leaned forward, thankful Don had not sad anything to counteract their petition.

"However," Salem said, "the law is clear in prioritizing to whom papers of conservatorship should be assigned when two separate parties are requesting to be named as conservator of the same person, the list beginning with spouse, than going down the line with adult child next, then legal parent, sibling and so on. In this case, there are two parties filing a petition to be named conservator of Don Eppes, and they are Dr. Melinda Thompson and Professor Charles Eppes."

Alan's fingers dug into Charlie's arm, both men unable to breath.

"According to the report of the court investigator, when Don was asked if he would be amicable to living with his only legal parent, he responded positively. Dean also states that he saw no signs of prior abuse and was not informed of any by Don when he questioned him about it."

Salem coughed and then he dropped two antacids into his mouth before finishing.

"With this interview in mind, and being aware that the first person on the court's list of people who should be assigned conservatorship of Don Eppes' is his legal parent"-

_We won, _Charlie and Alan thought at once-

-"_it is this court's ruling that Don Adam Eppes, now legally known as Don Adam Thompson,_ _shall be placed under the care of his mother, Dr. Melinda Thompson, to whom permanent papers of conservatorship shall be granted, in effect as of this moment."_

Gavel down.

Bang, Bang.


	59. Chapter 59

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

Author's note: Well, it looks like I've completely lost an audience. But it's too late for me to turn back now. I'll keep posting out of courtesy to those who have been sticking, and keep writing for myself. There are notes in my profile page if you are interested in where I'm going, though I really hate to explain. I think it ruins the story to know what will happen next. Oh, and this is not a plea for more reviews. I am honestly fine with the amount I receive and am grateful. Last, I am posting this as complete, because I'll be renaming this as part one and will start the second part when I can.

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All he wanted to do was explain to the judge that his honor had made a terrible mistake, that Melinda Thompson was not his son's mother- that a wonderful woman named Margaret Eppes had born Donny thirty-five years before.

That's all, not much more.

Alan wanted to tell him that the world must have turned right-side down and was no longer balanced, to ask the judge for the directions to the exit, because somehow he had stepped into an alternate universe where insanity ruled and nothing made sense any more.

Really, that's all Alan wanted to do.

And Alan wanted to add that he was a good father, that unfortunately he had made some mistakes of his own while raising Donny, but he had always been kind and loving, never abusive; that he would just like to leave the court room with everyone having the clear understanding that he was taking his youngest son home so that they could take care of his eldest one, something he had been doing with his wife and then on his own, off and on and quite well for thirty-five years.

That had been what he'd planned to do.

Not stand up and start screaming at the judge that he "must be mad! Mad!"

Certainly, he had not intended to backhand the bailiff when the man had taken hold of his arm.

Nor had he planned to turn over the heavy oak table in front of him. How could he have even anticipated he'd have the strength necessary to do such a feat?

It had most definitely not entered his mind to rush the judge and yell at him to take it back, to tell everyone present _that woman_ was not his son's mother.

Why, he had only wanted them to talk like two reasonable people, as if they were old friends.

Not yell at the man behind the bench as if he was the devil himself.

Only-

He hadn't behaved the way he'd wanted, nor had he spoken the way he should have.

So, when he was thrown to the ground by two officers of the court and handcuffed, pulled to his feet and was headed in the direction of the jail, it should not have surprised him.

Only, like every other event in his recent memory-

It did.

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Charlie sat stunned, his mind slowly starting to rise above the courtroom and into the freedom of the sky beyond, until the crash of the table in front of him weighed him down and he was jarringly brought back to reality.

He jumped out of his chair, knocking it over in the process, eyes wide at his father, who was held on the ground and handcuffed.

Charlie ran to Alan's side, kneeling, trying to talk the men into being more gentle, to take it easy, that any man would have behaved the same way if they had gone through what his father had been through. Yet they ignored him, roughly pulling Alan to his feet and walking towards the side door, Charlie up on his feet and following them.

Johnson rushed the bench himself, begging Salem, "Your ruling was too much for him to take. My client has been walking on the edge of an emotional breakdown for weeks- don't put him in jail and make it worse."

"The man just tore apart my courtroom, Johnson; I can't just let him walk out of here." Salem looked at the men who were tidying up the place, placing Johnson's documents in a neat stack on a side table and turning upright the one Alan had tipped over. Really, he had to admit, they would be back in order within a few minutes.

"This is that law enforcement officer's family- you just have to have some pity for them," Johnson pleaded, remembering Salem had told him that he'd had a brother who died while serving and protecting.

Salem gave Johnson a scowl, but his words belied the sympathy he felt for Alan and Charlie. "Get him calmed down. If he'll come apologize to the court, I'll just fine him." He nodded towards a court officer to relay this message to the ones who had escorted Alan from the room.

Johnson thanked him, grabbed his papers from the side table and shoved them into his attaché case, and left through the side door, jogging up to Charlie and Alan. Still in cuffs, Alan sat in the corner of a wooden bench that was carved into the wall of the courthouse, placing him and Charlie in a niche. One court officer stood to the side, making sure Alan would keep himself under control.

When Johnson sat down at Charlie's left, Alan immediately leaned towards him, spilling accusations of fraud and deceit. The court officer moved a step closer, but no further when Johnson held up a hand and mouthed that he would be fine.

"Alan," Johnson whispered harshly, "if you don't calm down, you're going to wind up in jail. Is that what you want?"

The mention of jail made Alan snort. "I've been to jail before- back when I was protesting this same asinine government that has decided to place my son in the care of _that bitch._"

"Sh!" Johnson waved his client's voice down. "Do you really think your sons want to see you in jail?"

This question served to quiet Alan. He looked guiltily at Charlie, who appeared frightened and concerned about his father. Taking a deep breath, Alan addressed Johnson again. "What happened in there? I think I must be going insane, because I swear I just heard that fat, old judge call Thompson Donny's mother."

Johnson slouched, laying his head back against the dark wood of the wall behind him. "You heard correctly, Alan. Salem did say Thompson was Don's mother, and according to the documents that Fairfield filed, she really is."

Alan's legs began to quiver. He grabbed Johnson's suit coat, pulling his face to his own. "That's not true," he stated quietly but firmly.

Johnson squirmed in his grasp, finally tugging himself free and dropping back against the wall with a thud. "I-I- I'm afraid it is, Alan," he stammered, swallowing nervously. "She adopted Don and now she is legally his mother."

Both Alan and Charlie stiffened in their seats, staring at Johnson in shock. Minutes passed and then Charlie managed to ask, "How is that possible? Don is a thirty-five year old man. He's only a child in _her _mind, not in reality."

Johnson cleared his throat. "In California, it is legal for one adult to adopt another, as long as certain guidelines are followed."

"But I'm his father," Alan snapped, "How the hell could she do that without my permission?"

"She didn't need your permission, just Don's. The same rules that apply to the typical child adoption do not apply to ones concerning adults."

Alan was furious. He spat his next words at Johnson. "So anybody who wants to can just walk into a courtroom and adopt whomever they want?"

The court officer turned towards Alan, frowning. Johnson leaned towards his client, warning him to maintain his control. "If you will let me explain..."

"Fine!" Alan sat back, glaring at him. "It'll be nice to know you're good for something." Charlie waited silently, wanting to understand how someone like Thompson could be granted the legal right to possess his brother as her son.

"Okay, then," Johnson began, trying to explain, "in order to adopt another adult, all you have to do is write up a contract of adoption and file it as a petition with the court. Then you have a hearing, like the kind we had today, only the proceedings and the paperwork are confidential, just like when adopting a child."

"And Thompson wouldn't need my permission to do any of those things?" Alan asked.

"No, like I said, only Don's permission would be required. That's probably why she took him last Wednesday; for the amount of time they were gone, I suspect Thompson took him to a notary public and had him sign the adoption contract as well as papers giving Fairfield power of attorney- that way, Don did not have to attend the hearing, which, according to the papers Fairfield submitted in court, occurred on Friday."

"But couldn't they have notified me as a person of interest," Alan asked, "so I could contest."

"I'm sorry Alan, but the birth parents don't have any say-so about their grown children agreeing to be adopted by someone else. Unless..." Johnson looked away.

"Unless what?" Charlie prodded him.

Johnson hesitated, coughing with embarrassment into his closed fist. "The birth parents only have to be notified of the hearing if the prospective adoptee has a mental illness and has been attended to by the adoptive parent at their residence. In that case, the local government center for the developmentally disabled would also have to be informed so an investigation could be conducted as to whether or not the adoption would meet the needs of the proposed adoptee."

"In English, please," Alan said irritated.

"If Don were mentally incapacitated"-

"Which he is," Alan interrupted.

"And he had been provided medical or psychiatric care by Thompson and was living at her home"-

"It wasn't great, but he had," Alan said.

"Then the court would have had to notify you _and _the local social agency that protects those with disabilities before the adoption would be approved."

"So why the hell didn't they?" Alan demanded.

Charlie knew. He remembered their last hearing and his heart sank. "Dad," he said slowly, taking over from Johnson. "We screwed up."

"What are you talking about, Charlie?"

Charlie sighed, closing his eyes and banging his head against the wall once, leaving it there so he could stay attached to his surroundings. "Last week, when Thompson's lawyer asked the court to clear up her relationship with Don, we thought she was trying to establish herself as his physician. But she wasn't. The whole purpose of bringing it up was to prove she _wasn't _his doctor and she'd never provided him with medical or psychiatric care." Charlie opened his eyes and stared at his father. "All the time we spent telling Don to say she wasn't his doctor, we were doing exactly what she wanted us to do. If she was never his caretaker, then the court did not have to contact you or social services before the hearing to adopt."

"But even if the court refused to recognize her as his doctor, Don is still mentally incapacitated," Alan complained. "They should have notified me."

"No, Alan," Johnson began again, "at our last hearing, the judge threw out that ruling. Don was declared competent until another evaluation could be completed."

"She worked fast," Charlie noted, puzzled, "to get the hearing during that small window of opportunity. I can't understand how she could do that."

Johnson replied, "She must have had her plans laid out a long time ago. Adoption papers are complicated; Fairfield had to have worked on them for quite a while before they were filed and the hearing date was set." Johnson shook his head wearily. "I think we now know why she influenced this court to get us a quick hearing date; first because she needed to get him out from under the conservatorship, and second because hers was coming up and she couldn't risk waiting for another one, because by that time Don might not be so compliant to her wishes and could have refused to sign the necessary papers."

"I still don't understand," Alan continued to sound angry, "why Salem would allow Thompson to adopt Don. He knew we were filing new papers and that the new evaluation was going to declare Don incompetent. Why didn't he make her wait until after our hearing?"

Johnson replied, "Salem had no knowledge of what Thompson was doing, because she adopted Don in the county in which she resides."

"But Don lives here in L.A.," Charlie pointed out.

"That's true," Johnson said, "but the law says an adoption can take place in either the county in which the adoptee lives or in the one the adoptive parent lives. Of course, it was to Thompson's advantage to adopt Don in her own. That is why I called Nevada City this morning- that's where the county seat for Nevada County is located, the county in which Alta Sierra lies. I thought I could find out some information about the adoption."

"And did you?" Alan asked with no real hope that his lawyer had.

"No," Johnson admitted, "As I mentioned before, adoption proceedings are confidential. Everything I've told you so far is based on my knowledge of the law and the papers Fairfield filed for our hearing."

Charlie sat forward, leaning on his knees. "Could we appeal the adoption based on fraud or something like that? I bet if the Nevada County courts knew that Don had been under a conservatorship, they would reverse it."

Johnson didn't think his clients understood the hopelessness of the situation. "Charlie, they probably knew."

Alan and Charlie raised their eyes, surprised.

"Look," Johnson proceeded, "Fairfield is no fool. He had to know they would ask about Don's mental competency and that it would be illegal for him to hide the fact that Don had previously been assigned a conservator. If he'd done that, I'm sure we could get the adoption thrown out; but if I know that, so did he, and I'm positive he wouldn't have taken that risk. It would have made more sense for him to show the Nevada County judge the transcripts from our last hearing, which would have been evidence that the L.A. court had declared Don competent and had not recognized that he had ever been provided medical or psychiatric care by Thompson. The transcripts would have even provided a reason for Don wanting to be adopted by Thompson- his family had illegally placed him in a mental institute. I would suspect the judge thought Don was trying to get himself out from under his controlling father."

Alan's lip trembled as he realized an entirely different court had decided he had behaved like a monster towards his son. Charlie slipped his hand into his father's in an attempt to reassure him that he knew differently. Johnson added, "I'll bet if we investigated, we'd find that Fairfield did something that prevented Dr. Fillmore from giving me his evaluation of Don earlier than he did. Because Fillmore submitted it to me in the afternoon, I was not able to file your petition until later in the day. But the adoption proceedings were in the morning, so even if the judge in Nevada County had been cautious and called L.A. to see if we had filed a new petition, he would have been told that we hadn't, throwing out the last reason he would've had to disapprove the adoption. I'm afraid there is nothing we can do about it. The only ways left to reverse the adoption would be for Don _and_ Thompson to both agree to dissolve it, which I doubt she would do, or for Don to file in civil court for a hearing, which would take a long time, and in his current condition, I don't think he will do."

Charlie faced Johnson again. "If we can't have the adoption thrown out, then we have to appeal the judge's decision today, only I guess we'll have to file under my dad's name again. I'm mean, so he can assert his right as Don's only biological parent."

Alan nodded. "Charlie is right. I don't want to hurt Megan, but I guess I have no other choice. As Don's brother, I would suppose Charlie has fewer rights than Thompson, now that she's legally his..." He couldn't complete his sentence- it was too horrible of a statement to make. "We'll have to appeal and tell the judge Megan acted alone in anything she did to get Don into the institute."

Johnson stared in disbelief at both men as they continued to talk about their options; his clients really did not understand the enormity of what Thompson had done.

After a few minutes of discussion with his father, Charlie told Johnson, "I guess we agree that we should appeal- but maybe we should hold off before coming back to court. That way Don will have time to get more of his memory back and he can testify against Thompson."

"Yes," Alan said, feeling more positive about the situation, "and by then, Don might be able to reverse the adoption, so Thompson won't have any right to ask to be conservator."

Johnson thrust into their conversation. "We can't appeal."

Confused, Charlie asked, "What do you mean, we can't appeal? You told my dad yesterday that if Thompson stopped our petition, we could go to civil court and appeal.

"Yes," Johnson said, "I said that we could appeal if she stopped your petition. But she did more than stop yours- she won her own."

"So we can't appeal the judge's decision?" Alan asked skeptically.

Johnson shook his head. "We can, but it would be pointless. There is no way for us to win."

Alan lowered his brows. "Why not? Surely I have more rights as Donny's biological father than she does as his adoptive one?"

"Alan," Johnson said forcefully, knowing he needed to get through to his client, "you...have...no...rights." Seeing the confusion that resided on the Eppes' faces, Johnson continued, talking slowly, "The adoption contract between Thompson and Don is very explicit. It not only affords her the legal rights of being Don's mother, it _severs all ties he has to his biological parents._" Johnson leaned towards Alan, "As far as the law is concerned, you have no legal ties to Don."

Alan could hardly breathe when his attorney finished by emphasizing-

"I'm sorry, Alan, but as far as the courts are concerned-

_You are no longer Don's father_."

Alan moaned, barely breathing, his facial ticks rebounding across his features, pain searing into his soul from the double-thrust of wickedness Thompson had used to gut his heart. He finally managed to cry, "She stole my son... Charlie, she stole your brother."

Charlie gripped his father's hand tightly, nervous energy swirling through his body, saying with fear clinging to his words as his voice pitched higher and higher, "I still think we should appeal. It will give Don the time he needs to remember, and then he can"-

Johnson broke in again. "Charlie, I don't think your brother is going to get better while living with Thompson."

For the first time, Alan and Charlie's attention was sharply focused on the ruling the judge had made about assigning a conservator and not the horror of discovering Don had been adopted by Thompson. Charlie swallowed dryly, "What do you mean, while living with Thompson? If we appeal right away, won't they leave Don with us until the next hearing?"

To their horror, Johnson told him, "No. I guess in all the commotion your father caused, you failed to notice Thompson and Fairfield leave the courtroom with a court officer by their side. I would assume she requested the escort in order to pick up Don without interference from you two."

Alan did not move, shock enveloping him for exactly thirty seconds; then he lay into Charlie, his lips pressed against his youngest son's ear, his hands grappling with his shirt.

"Charlie, _please_ run home as fast as you can"-

_You have to hide your brother._"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Charlie raced.

He felt as if he were in the park again, running to catch his brother.

But this time, he was racing in a car, ignoring stoplights and cursing cabdrivers, fists thrown in the air at him, a woman who jumped back on the sidewalk, and a delivery truck that careened out of his way.

Charlie raced.

He put all the laws aside and pressed his foot to the gas, zooming in and out of traffic, going up through the parking lane around a slow-moving boat and back into the proper lane again, where he needed to be, so he could get home quickly to his brother.

Charlie raced.

When he pulled in front of his house, he parked halfway up the sidewalk, leaving his door open, running through the haze that surrounded his home, left from that morning's storm, which had moved triumphantly on long before.

Charlie raced.

In through the front door, up the stairs and into Don's room, where his second place award sat waiting for him on his dresser, Larry slumped in the recliner and staring at him with tearful eyes as he explained that he'd tried to stop her, but there was a police officer by her side and legal papers and nothing he could do.

Charlie stood in front of his dresser, his mind lost in a fog. He picked up the three pieces of chalk, rubbing them between his fingers.

"Don insisted I take those from his front pocket," Larry explained, "and leave them there for you. He said you'd know why."

Charlie broke the chalk into pieces, crumbling it into dust, knowing Don was letting him know that he had chosen where he wanted to be.

And that place was nowhere near Charlie.

Charlie had raced after his brother, but this time Don had not stopped.

Larry tried to soothe his friend, but Charlie could not hear his words. His mind was starting to separate from the world around him and numbers were slowly latching onto his thoughts, sucking him dry of all emotion. He walked away from Larry, his friend continuing in his attempts to comfort, but all Charlie could hear was the sound of a low, long siren that began to fill the air, a vehicle on the alert that danger was at hand.

Charlie went to the top of the stairs, barely able to see his surroundings, everything blending as the numbers settled around him, carefully constructing a new bubble about his body, the sound of the siren becoming higher in volume the further he went down the stairs, until he was in the entryway to their home and realized it hadn't been a siren at all.

His father was on his knees before him, forehead bent to the ground, two hands gripping his head, a low, long keening sound starting from his diaphragm, deep in the wells of his soul, passing through his body and out through his quivering lips, wailing for the son he had lost.

Charlie sank down beside his father, his arms around his shoulder.

But he was silent.

The numbers had finished their construction.

Charlie was his own little bubble again and he began to float away.


End file.
